The day I had waited for all these years finally arrived.
My first job.
I had imagined this day in different ways—sometimes with excitement, sometimes with fear—but never with the quiet heaviness that sat in my chest that morning. I kept telling myself that this was what I wanted. What I needed. A step forward, not just for me, but for my family.
The days before my departure disappeared quickly. I went shopping for things I had never really needed before—formal shirts, trousers, shoes that pinched a little, but looked important. An office bag. A watch. Small symbols of a life that was about to begin.
Booking the flight ticket felt unreal. Another state. Another city. Another version of me.
The night before leaving, sleep refused to come. I lay awake listening to the familiar sounds of my home—the fan's slow rhythm, the distant traffic, my mother moving quietly in the kitchen. Everything I had known for years suddenly felt fragile, as if I were memorizing it without meaning to.
Morning arrived too soon.
My mother stood near the doorway while I packed the last of my things. She tried to stay busy, adjusting something that didn't need adjusting, folding a cloth that was already neat. I could see it in her eyes—pride, yes, but also the ache of letting go.
"At last," she said softly, "the day has come when you are going to be independent."
She looked at me carefully, as if committing my face to memory.
"Be a brave man. Do your work sincerely. And... don't involve yourself in any disputes there."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Mom, don't worry," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "I'll be fine there. I'm going to make our lives better. One day, you won't have to work so hard. You'll rest. I promise."
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she smiled—a smile that carried years of sacrifice and silent strength.
"I know, Charlie," she said. "I love you."
"I love you too, Mom."
Those words stayed with me as I walked away from the house.
The airport was crowded, loud, filled with strangers going somewhere important to them. I sat by the window, watching planes move like they knew exactly where they belonged. I wondered if I would ever feel that certain.
When I finally landed, the city welcomed me with unfamiliar air and unfamiliar faces. The hotel provided by the office was clean and comfortable, but it didn't feel like home. It couldn't.
That night, I stood by the window, looking at the lights outside. This was my new beginning. No one to rely on. No one to fall back on.
Just me.
I told myself I could handle it.
The next morning, I woke up early, dressed formally, heart racing with anticipation. Orientation day. My first step into the professional world. But a message from the company changed that—due to unforeseen reasons, the orientation would be conducted online for the next three days.
I sat there, unsure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message notification.
I wasn't paying attention at first. But when I looked at the screen, my eyes paused.
Ruth.
Her name.
Something warm stirred inside me—unexpected, gentle. A small smile formed without my permission. It was strange how just a name could bring comfort. How it could make an unfamiliar city feel a little less lonely.
And just like that, my mind drifted backward.
To a time before travel.
Before hotels.
Before responsibilities felt so real.
Back to a group chat.
Back to a simple question.
Back to the moment when two strangers first crossed paths—without knowing how much they would come to matter.
And that was where it all began.