"Sometimes, a new life begins when the old one falls apart."
I was a child when I first learned what it meant to lose. My world, which once fit inside a big, bright house, suddenly shrank.
My father owned a construction company, building houses where other families found shelter. But ours lost its ground. Bankruptcy struck like thunder: furniture sold, plans interrupted, trips canceled. And yet, in the middle of all the loss, what truly mattered remained — the three of us.
I learned early on that bonds of love don't fit into moving boxes. They follow along, even when they weigh heavy.
I grew up fast after that. The weight of the pan, the heavy bucket, the clothes on the line… things that once seemed small became part of my days. And I discovered a simple truth: I'm clumsy. I trip over my own shadow, break glasses, burn rice. But I also learned to start over, every single time.
At least my dream never crumbled. Architecture stayed alive in my scribbled notebooks, in borrowed books, in sleepless nights. When I got into university, I cried with my parents. It felt like, after so many falls, a line of my sketch had finally taken shape.
And so, here I am: with a large suitcase, a tight heart, and the feeling of stepping onto a brand-new floor that still smells of fresh paint.
For now, I live in Aunt Rosa's house. Her hands always smell of soap, her voice is practical and firm.
"Eat, dear. Sleep well. Tomorrow you'll see the rest."
That first night, we drank chamomile tea. We talked about the new city, my parents, the way to the university. My aunt is the kind of person who doesn't need speeches to convince you. She just looks at you and says:
"It's going to be fine."
And, for some reason, I believe her.
The next day, I chose my clothes as if I were choosing an identity. Jeans, a light shirt, a thin jacket. My ponytail slipped three times, I almost got off at the wrong bus stop, and I counted three dogs napping in the sun on the same street.
The city is bigger than I imagined. The university, even bigger. Tall windows, a courtyard with an old fig tree, students rushing in groups and others alone, eyes glued to their phones.
I was alone, too. With the map open on my phone, I walked in circles until I found the right classroom. That's almost always how it is with me: I get lost before I arrive.
The first classroom smelled of chalk and air conditioning. I sat by the window. The professor asked us to introduce ourselves. When it was my turn, my voice came out smaller than I wanted.
"Hi, I'm Helena… I came from another city. I'm happy to be here."
Later, I thought that happiness is a timid word. It exists, but sometimes it hides behind fear, homesickness, or exhaustion.
Even so, I was happy. Even stumbling, even alone, even starting from zero.
That night, looking out my aunt's window, the city seemed to shrink. The quiet street, the parked cars, a tree tapping against the glass in the wind.
I was far from my parents, but close to something new. Life felt like a fragile plant I didn't know how to care for, but watered anyway — just because I wanted to see it grow.
And that was enough for today.