The morning light fell in through the half-open curtains, painting her room in faded gold. The kind of sunlight that didn't warm much but made everything look softer — gentler. Aria sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open boxes, clothes spilling out like memories she hadn't sorted yet.
The air smelled faintly of detergent and her mother's cooking downstairs — a comfort she'd soon have to live without. On her bed lay a neat pile of sweaters, notebooks, and a laptop bag that had seen better days. Somewhere under the heap of things, her earphones were tangled like her thoughts.
University of H.Her dream school. Her next chapter. Her first real step away from home.
And yet, instead of excitement, she just felt… heavy.
"Ariaaa! Are you even packing or just staring at your walls again?" Her younger sister, Hana, poked her head through the door, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail that defied gravity.
Aria didn't look up. "Both. It's a multitasking skill."
Hana rolled her eyes and stepped inside, immediately sitting on one of the half-packed boxes. "You know Mom said these need to go to the car soon, right? Dad's already loading stuff. I think he's competing with time itself."
Aria smiled faintly. "That sounds like him."
For a moment, neither spoke. The room felt too quiet, too familiar. The walls still carried faint marks from the posters she'd peeled off last night — fragments of her teenage self left behind. A BTS poster corner still clung stubbornly near the light switch, half torn but unwilling to fall.
Hana picked up a worn paperback from the floor. "You're taking this too?"
Aria glanced at it — The Little Prince. The pages were yellowed and soft at the edges. "Yeah," she said softly. "Some things shouldn't be left behind."
"Wow, poetic. You sound like a K-drama monologue."
"Maybe I am one," Aria muttered, taping up another box.
Downstairs, her mom was fussing over snacks, muttering something about how university food couldn't possibly be nutritious, packing containers of rice and side dishes "just in case." The scent of sesame oil and soy sauce clung to the air like a memory she didn't want to let go.
"Aria, did you pack your medicine? Your charger? Toothpaste? Don't tell me you forgot toothpaste again!" her mom called out.
"I didn't!" Aria shouted back. "Probably!"
Her dad chuckled from the driveway. "That means she did," he said, hoisting another suitcase into the trunk. His hands were steady, practiced, as if this wasn't a big deal — as if watching his eldest daughter leave home was just another weekend errand. But every now and then, his gaze lingered on the boxes a bit too long.
When Aria came downstairs, dragging her suitcase with both hands, Hana followed behind with her pillow — the one with faded cartoon prints.
"You're not bringing that, are you?" Aria asked, raising a brow.
Hana hugged it dramatically. "It's for emotional support! What if you cry on your first night there?"
"I'll use my blanket," Aria deadpanned.
Her mom sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You two will never grow up."
Outside, the cold air nipped at Aria's cheeks. The car stood open, its backseat already a jigsaw of bags and boxes that didn't quite fit neatly anywhere. Her dad adjusted one of the straps that tightly hung on the snackboxes and turned to her.
"Looks like this is it," he said.
She nodded, unsure of what to say. There was something both exciting and terrifying about seeing your whole life reduced to luggage.
"Come here," he said, pulling her into a quick, firm hug. "You'll do great, kiddo. Just remember—work hard, but don't forget to live too."
Aria smiled weakly. "That sounds like something from a university brochure."
He chuckled. "I could write one then."
Her mom appeared with a thermos and a paper bag. "Homemade tea and snacks. For the road. And you better eat properly there, okay? I don't want you surviving on instant noodles."
"I'll try," Aria promised, though they both knew she was lying.
When her mom hugged her, it was warm, tight, and slightly trembling. The kind of hug that says everything words can't — pride, love, and a touch of sadness.
As the car pulled out of the driveway, Hana pressed her face against the window, waving until the house disappeared from view. Aria leaned back, earbuds in but no music playing — she just needed the illusion of sound to fill the silence.
Her mother turned around from the passenger seat. "You'll be fine there, Aria. It's a good place. You'll make new friends."
"Yeah," she murmured. "I hope so."
Outside, the winter sunlight flickered through the trees — pale and fleeting. Roads curved ahead, carrying her toward a city that felt too big, too alive. Somewhere deep down, she felt the weight of change settling in.
She closed her eyes, imagining the life that waited — crowded lecture halls, new faces, the cold walls of a dorm room that wasn't yet hers. And in some unexplainable corner of her mind, a quiet thought surfaced:
Maybe this is what growing up feels like — a little loss, a little hope, and a thousand uncertainties waiting in between.
Her mom hummed softly to the radio. Her dad drummed his fingers against the wheel. Hana had already fallen asleep beside her, head resting on Aria's shoulder.
The world outside kept moving — trees blurring, sunlight shifting, a thousand lives unfolding beyond the glass.
For the first time in a long while, Aria smiled — not because she wasn't scared, but because maybe, just maybe, it was okay to be.