The Sleepless night:
After the morning sleep and the preparation for departure, I couldn't sleep.
The entire night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as headlights from passing cars swept across the room. My suitcase sat by the door—packed, zipped, ready. A silent declaration that this was real. That tomorrow—today, now, since the sky was starting to pale with pre-dawn light—everything would change.
My body felt strange. Weird and exhausted at the same time, running on adrenaline and something else I couldn't quite name. Not quite hope. Not yet. But adjacent to it.
The bruise on my cheek had faded to almost nothing. Just a faint yellowish shadow you'd only see if you knew where to look. Three days ago, it had been my excuse. My justification for staying hidden. Now it was disappearing just as I was about to disappear too.
The envelope had arrived yesterday morning at 7 AM. Early. Too early for normal deliveries. The knock had been sharp and professional, cutting through the quiet apartment like an announcement.
Inside: my graduation certificate. Dated yesterday, not months from now. Just... done. Finished. Like my three years of suffering could be neatly tied off with a gold seal and formal calligraphy.
And then the other documents. Project Sky. The acceptance letter. The compensation details that made Mom's hands shake when she read them.
The personal letter from Professor Laura with words that seemed to reach into my diary, into my 3 AM thoughts, into the darkest corners I'd never shown anyone.
*I always thought you were beautiful.*
*Don't cry alone—I am here with you!*
The library. Four weeks ago, maybe five.
I'd cried. In my sleep. Whispered things I didn't remember saying.
She'd been there. Watching. Not in a creepy way—Professor Laura wasn't creepy. She was just... observant. Noticed things other people missed because they were too busy looking at surfaces.
She'd noticed me when no one else did.
After reading everything—the certificates, the letters, the impossible offer—I'd called her. My hands shaking so badly I could barely dial. But her voice had been calm, steady, exactly what I needed.
"Are you in?"
And I'd said yes. Because what else could I say? Because this was the escape I'd been dreaming of, handed to me on expensive paper with an actual plan attached.
Around 10 AM, I heard Dad come home. The front door opening with its familiar creak, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion from another night shift. Then silence.
The voices—low and urgent. Mom telling him. Him responding with sounds I couldn't make out but could feel through the thin walls. Disbelief. Confusion. Then something that might have been crying.
I stayed in bed, giving them privacy. Giving them this moment to process without me there as a reminder of why this was happening.
And then exhaustion had crashed over me like a wave. Three days of barely sleeping, three days of hiding, three days of that poisonous morning question. My body had finally demanded payment.
I'd slept. From late afternoon until almost evening. Hours of dreamless, heavy sleep that felt like falling into a dark hole and not caring if I climbed back out.
When I woke, the sun was setting. Mom and Dad were both home, sitting at the kitchen table with the documents spread between them. Talking in low voices.
I joined them. Planning. Deciding. Together.
And then we'd packed. Boxes appeared from somewhere—maybe the building's storage, maybe borrowed from neighbors. Our three years of life sorted into cardboard containers with surprising speed. We didn't have much. Didn't need much. Everything that mattered fit into a dozen boxes and three small suitcases.
By late evening, the apartment looked like a skeleton. Boxes stacked against walls, furniture that would be left behind looking suddenly sad and worn. The space we'd inhabited reduced to its bones.
"The car comes at 10 AM tomorrow," Mom had reminded me again, before bed. "You should sleep."
But I couldn't.
The afternoon sleep had stolen my ability to rest at night. My body's schedule completely disrupted, my mind too aware that in less than twelve hours everything would change.
So I lay there through the entire night. Staring. Thinking. Feeling the weight of the decision press down on my chest.
Was I making a mistake? Was I running away from problems I should face? Was I being a coward?
Or was I finally, finally being brave enough to choose something different?
I don't care. I don't want to. Because this is my dream. My yearning for these 3 years of sufferings. I don't want to let it slip through my fingers.
***
The sky continued its slow shift from black to gray to the pale pink of early morning. The sounds of the building waking up filtered through—pipes groaning, footsteps above us, someone's alarm going off and being quickly silenced.
At 6 AM, I gave up entirely on sleep and sat up. My room looked strange in the early light. Empty of personality, just furniture and bare walls. The diary I'd left on the desk yesterday seemed to watch me, a silent witness to who I'd been.
I got up, my legs unsteady after a night of no sleep. Made my bed out of habit, smoothing the covers even though no one would see it. Opened the curtains for the first time in days and let the pale morning light flood in.
It didn't hurt. The sun wasn't up yet, just the suggestion of it painting the sky. I stood at the window and looked out at the street below. The same street I'd stared at countless times, always from behind glass, always separate.
Today, I'd walk on it. Get into a car. Leave.
The thought should have terrified me. It did terrify me. But underneath the fear was something else—that thing adjacent to hope that I couldn't quite name.
The bathroom was empty, so I showered. Let the water run hotter than necessary, steam filling the small space until I could barely see my reflection in the mirror. When I emerged, I could smell coffee. Mom was up. Of course she was.
I dressed carefully, deliberately. Not the oversized hoodie I usually hid in, but actual clothes. Jeans that fit properly. A simple long-sleeved shirt that covered my arms—because even though the sun wasn't up yet, I'd be outside, and habits of protection died hard. A cardigan Mom had bought me last year that I'd never worn because where would I go?
Now I had somewhere to go.
My hair was still damp when I walked out of my room, carrying my suitcase. The sound of wheels on worn carpet seemed too loud in the early morning quiet.
Mom was in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a coffee mug, staring at nothing. Dad sat at the table, changed out of his work clothes now, his face showing every one of his years plus some. They both looked up when I entered, and something passed between us. No words needed. Just recognition.
Today was the day.
"Coffee?" Mom's voice was hoarse, like she'd been crying. Of course she had been.
"Please."
She poured me a cup, her hands shaking slightly. I took it and sat at the table across from Dad. We didn't speak. What was there to say? Everything and nothing. Too much to fit into the four hours we had left before the car arrived.
Dad reached across the table and took my hand. His palm was calloused, rough from years of work, from sacrifice. He squeezed gently, and I squeezed back.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. Not trying to stop me, just... offering an out. One last chance to change my mind.
"I know." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "But I want to."
He nodded slowly, accepting. "Then we're with you. All the way."
Mom came to the table with her own coffee, sitting beside Dad. They looked older in the harsh kitchen light, lines deeper, gray more prominent. When had that happened? When had they aged so much?
Because of me. Always because of me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them.
"No." Mom's voice was firm, sharp even. "No, Maggie. Don't apologize. Not for existing. Not for struggling. Not for any of it."
"But—"
"No buts." She leaned forward, her eyes fierce despite the tears gathering in them. "You are not a burden. You never were. You're our daughter, and we love you, and if this—" she gestured vaguely, encompassing the morning, the decision, everything, "—if this gives you a chance at something better, then we're taking it. Together."
Together. That word kept coming up. Like an anchor. Like a promise.
We sat there in silence, drinking coffee as the sky outside slowly brightened. The morning sounds of the building waking up filtered through—footsteps above us, pipes groaning, someone's kettle whistling. The world continuing its routine, unaware that for us, everything was about to change.
At 8 AM, Mom stood abruptly. "I should check the boxes one more time."
"I'll help," Dad said, rising with her.
They disappeared into their room, leaving me alone at the kitchen table. I stared at my coffee—cold now, undrinkable—and tried to feel something definitive. Fear or excitement or regret. But there was just numbness. A strange blank space where emotion should be.
I stood and went to the living room, looking at the boxes stacked against the walls. Our lives, reduced to cardboard containers. The couch we'd sat on for three years, suddenly looking worn and sad in the morning light. All of it would be left behind. Given away or thrown out. Remnants of a life we were abandoning.
My diary still sat on my desk in my room. I walked back, stood in the doorway looking at that thin notebook. All my suffering documented in those pages.
I'd already written my goodbye yesterday, after making the call to Professor Laura. Before the exhaustion had pulled me under.
*I'm leaving today. Not disappearing—leaving. There's a difference. One is giving up. The other is trying again.*
The words were still there, still true. More true now than they'd been yesterday.
I didn't pick it up. That version of me—the one who'd filled these pages—she was staying here. In this apartment, in this room, in this life we were leaving behind.
I returned to the living room, to my suitcase by the door, and waited.
Mom and Dad emerged at 9:30, each carrying a single bag. Everything else was in boxes, ready for the movers who'd come after we left.
We stood in the living room, the three of us, surrounded by boxes and the remnants of our life here. Not speaking. Just existing together in these final moments.
The clock on the wall ticked toward 10 AM.
9:45.
9:50.
9:55.
My heart was hammering now, each beat loud in my ears. This was real. This was happening. In five minutes, four minutes, three minutes—
9:58.
I went to the window, unable to sit still anymore. The street below was empty except for a few early morning walkers, people heading to weekend errands or weekend routines. Normal people living normal lives.
9:59.
Then I heard it. The low, almost silent purr of an expensive engine. Then another, deeper and rougher. The diesel rumble of something larger.
10:00.
Right on time—exactly on time, with the kind of precision that suggested this operation had been planned down to the minute—they appeared.
My breath caught.
The car was sleek and black, its surface so polished it looked liquid in the morning light. Not ostentatious, not screaming wealth, but quietly, undeniably expensive. Behind it, a truck—large and pristine white, professional moving company logos on the side.
Both vehicles looked wrong on our street. Too clean, too new, too nice. Like they'd driven in from another world and stopped here by mistake.
But they weren't a mistake.
They were here for us.
"Mom," I called, my voice not quite steady. "Dad. They're here."
I heard them move behind me, coming to the window. Mom's sharp intake of breath. Dad's muttered curse of disbelief.
The driver's door of the car opened, and a man stepped out. Professional uniform, impeccably clean, movements efficient and practiced. The car's passenger door opened next, and someone else emerged. A woman in business attire, carrying a clipboard, her posture radiating competence and organization.
The doorbell rang.
The sound cut through our frozen tableau, sharp and demanding. We looked at each other—Mom, Dad, me—and I saw my own fear and hope reflected in their faces.
Dad moved first, his hand finding Mom's, pulling her gently from the window. I grabbed my suitcase and followed them to the door.
Dad's hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment. One last hesitation. One last chance to change our minds, to say this was all a mistake, to stay in this familiar suffering rather than risk the unknown.
Then he opened it.
The woman with the clipboard stood there, professional smile already in place. Up close, she looked kind—mid-thirties maybe, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, makeup subtle but perfect. Her suit was expensive but not intimidating, charcoal gray that felt professional without being cold.
I instinctively hid behind my dad. I couldn't get courage overnight, no matter how much I wanted to.
"Good morning," she said, her voice warm and measured. "I'm Sarah Chen from Aurora Research Initiative. I'm here to assist with your relocation." Her eyes moved between us, taking us in without judgment, without the stare I'd been bracing for. "You must be Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore, and—" her gaze settled on me, and her smile widened slightly, becoming more genuine, "—Maggie. It's wonderful to meet you all in person."
She knew our names. Of course she did. But she said them like we were expected, like we were wanted, like this was all perfectly normal.
My nervousness lifted slightly as she smiled.
"Please, come in," Mom said, stepping back. "We're almost ready, we just need to—"
"There's no rush," Sarah interrupted gently. "We're on your schedule today. Take all the time you need." She glanced at her clipboard, then back at us. "We have a team ready to load your belongings. Whatever makes you most comfortable."
Dad cleared his throat. "The boxes are ready. We just need to—we need a moment. To..."
He couldn't finish. How do you explain that you need a moment to say goodbye to suffering? To a place that had hurt you but also sheltered you? To a life you were desperate to leave but terrified to abandon?
"Of course." Sarah's expression softened with understanding. Like she'd done this before, like she knew exactly what this moment felt like. "I'll be outside coordinating with the movers. Just let me know when you're ready."
She stepped back, giving us space, and Dad closed the door softly.
We stood there in the entryway, the three of us, reality crashing over us in waves.
"This is really happening," Mom whispered.
"Yes," I said, my voice barely audible.
"We're really leaving."
"Yes."
"And we're going to be okay?"
I looked at her—really looked at her. At the woman who'd loved me through everything, even when I'd been unlovable. Even when loving me had cost her everything.
"Yes," I said, and tried to believe it. "We're going to be okay."
She pulled me into a hug then—sudden and fierce, her arms tight around me like she could hold all my broken pieces together through sheer force of will. Dad's arms came around both of us, completing the circle.
"Together," Dad murmured into my hair.
"Together," Mom and I echoed.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Three people who'd survived three years of hell, holding onto each other before stepping into something unknown.
Then we pulled apart slowly, wiping eyes, straightening clothes. Dad squared his shoulders. Mom took a shaky breath. I picked up my suitcase.
Dad opened the door again and called to Sarah.
"We're ready."
---
What followed was a blur of organized efficiency that my exhausted brain struggled to process.
Sarah returned with the movers—four of them, professionals who moved with practiced coordination. She stood near the doorway with her clipboard, directing with quiet efficiency, occasionally making notes but mostly just ensuring everything ran smoothly.
The movers were respectful, careful, asking before touching anything, treating our worn-out belongings like they mattered. Box after box disappeared down the stairs with shocking speed. The sound of tape being sealed, cardboard scraping against doorframes, the thud of boots on the stairs—all of it created a rhythm that felt both frantic and methodical.
Three years of life, cleared out in under an hour.
I stood by the window, watching but not really seeing, my body present but my mind somewhere else. Floating. Disconnected. Was this shock? Or just exhaustion catching up?
Sarah appeared beside me at some point, her presence quiet and unobtrusive. "Is there anything else you'd like to bring? Anything we might have missed?"
I shook my head awkwardly, the movement stiff and jerky. "This is everything."
She smiled in understanding, her expression softening. "All right." She made a note on her clipboard. "The truck is almost fully loaded. Once we do a final walk-through, we'll be ready to depart."
A final walk-through. One last look at the place that had been prison and sanctuary, torture and shelter.
Mom was already moving through the rooms, opening closets, checking corners. Making sure we weren't leaving anything important behind. Dad followed her, his hand on her back, offering silent support.
I went to my room one last time.
Empty now except for dust motes floating in the morning light that streamed through the open curtains. The bed I'd barely slept in. The desk where I'd studied until my eyes burned. The window I'd stared through, watching a world I couldn't be part of.
In the end, my eyes landed on my diary. I stared at it for a moment. Then I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me.
Guess this is the goodbye to the old me then.
We gathered in the entryway—Mom, Dad, and me. Our bags at our feet, the apartment empty and echoing behind us, Sarah waiting patiently by the open front door.
"Ready?" she asked softly.
Were we? Could anyone ever really be ready for this kind of change?
But we nodded anyway.