Aria wakes up before the alarm.
That's always been her talent—anticipating things she doesn't want to face.
The ceiling above her is unfamiliar. Too smooth. Too white. No hairline crack shaped like Florida, no faint water stain that her grandmother once joked looked like a rabbit if you squinted hard enough. This ceiling hasn't learned her yet.
She lies still, listening.
The apartment hums quietly, the sound of something electrical working too hard behind the walls. An air vent sighs. Somewhere outside, a delivery truck beeps in reverse, sharp and impatient, like the city itself is already late for something.
New city.
New school.
New everything.
Aria exhales slowly, the way her grandmother taught her—like she's cooling soup she doesn't trust yet.
The phone on her nightstand lights up. 6:12 a.m. Her alarm isn't set for another eighteen minutes, but sleep has officially rejected her application.
She rolls onto her side and stares at the stack of unpacked boxes lining the wall. Winter coats. Books. Kitchen—misc. Her handwriting is neat, precise. Controlled. If she labels things carefully enough, maybe the rest of life will follow instructions.
The door to her mom's bedroom is already open. Empty. Of course.
Her mom had left before sunrise again, pressing a kiss into Aria's hair while whispering apologies that were already outdated. Big job. Big move. Big promises that things would "settle down soon."
Aria doesn't resent her. Not really.
Resentment requires wasted energy.
She sits up, rubbing her eyes, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold. Tile, not carpet. Another reminder that this place is temporary until it isn't.
In the bathroom mirror, she barely recognizes herself.
Same face. Same dark eyes. Same mouth that always looks like it's about to say something smarter than it actually will. But there's a tightness there, a quiet readiness, like she's bracing for impact.
"Okay," she tells her reflection. "Let's not make this dramatic."
The reflection does not respond. Rude.
She showers quickly, lets the water run hotter than necessary just to feel something familiar—heat is heat everywhere, at least. She dresses carefully: jeans that fit without trying too hard, a soft gray sweater, sneakers she can walk fast in if needed. Armor disguised as casual.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine is too new and too complicated. She stares at it for a full ten seconds before deciding she does not need caffeine and a breakdown.
She settles for toast.
The apartment smells faintly like cardboard and lemon cleaner. No memories yet. No ghosts. That part feels… empty, but not in a bad way. Just unfinished.
Her grandmother would've loved this kitchen, Aria thinks suddenly. Too bright. Too many windows. She would've complained while opening every cabinet anyway, narrating her judgment out loud.
Well, this drawer is useless. Who designed this? A raccoon?
Aria smiles before she can stop herself.
The smile fades just as easily.
She slips her phone into her backpack and pauses by the door. For a moment, she rests her forehead against the cool wood, breathing in, breathing out.
She isn't scared.
She tells herself that like a fact, not a wish.
She's done this before—new places, new faces, learning the rhythm of unfamiliar hallways. She knows how to observe before speaking, how to listen more than she talks. She knows how to be polite without disappearing.
Still.
First days have weight. They leave impressions whether you want them to or not.
Outside, the air is crisp, sharper than she's used to. The sky is pale blue, undecided. The school building is visible at the end of the street—brick, wide, looming in that institutional way that promises rules before understanding.
Aria adjusts her backpack strap and starts walking.
Each step feels like crossing an invisible line.
She doesn't know it yet—can't possibly know it—but somewhere inside that building, someone is about to drop a stack of drawings onto the floor.
And for the first time since the move, the day won't belong entirely to her anymore.