Sarah led us down the stairs—familiar stairs I'd climbed countless times. Past Mrs. Chen's door on the third floor where I could hear her TV playing morning news. Past the second floor landing with its flickering light that the landlord never fixed. Down to the first floor, through the lobby with its cracked tile and sad plastic plants that were probably older than my time here.
And then we were at the building's front door.
The last barrier between inside and outside. Between the life I knew and the life waiting.
Sarah pushed it open, and morning air rushed in. Cool and clean, carrying the smell of spring and car exhaust and the city waking up.
My chest tightened. My hands started to shake.
Outside. I'd be outside. Visible. People could see me. Anyone walking by could look and stare and—
"Maggie?" Sarah's voice, calm and understanding. She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed. "The car has tinted windows. Complete privacy once you're inside. And the campus where we're going—it's gated, access strictly controlled. You'll be safe there."
Safe. That word again.
I looked past her to where the car waited at the curb. The back door was already open, held by Marcus—the driver—who stood with patient, professional posture. Not looking at me. Not staring. Just waiting.
Mom's hand found mine. Squeezed. "Together," she whispered.
Right. Together.
I took a step forward. My legs felt weird, unstable, like I'd forgotten how to walk. But Mom and Dad were on either side of me, their presence anchoring me to reality.
Another step. Then another.
The sidewalk under my feet felt strange after so long inside. Solid but somehow wrong, too exposed, too open. The morning sun touched my covered arms and I flinched automatically even though the fabric protected me.
We reached the car.
Mom climbed in first, her movements careful and uncertain. Dad followed, pausing to offer me his hand.
I took it. Let him help me duck my head and slide into the back seat.
The door closed behind me with a solid, expensive thunk that seemed to seal us away from the world outside.
The interior was perfect. Cream leather seats that smelled new and expensive. Polished wood accents. Windows tinted so dark that the outside world became muted, soft-edged, unable to truly reach us. The silence inside was different from the silence of my room—not oppressive or suffocating, but protective. Like we'd stepped into a bubble that existed separate from everything else.
I could breathe again.
Sarah climbed into the front passenger seat with practiced ease. Marcus settled behind the wheel, adjusting something before glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Everyone comfortable?" His voice was kind, professional without being distant.
We nodded, still mute with disbelief and exhaustion and relief.
"Excellent," Marcus said. "The drive is approximately six hours. We'll stop once for a rest break around the halfway point. There's water and refreshments in the center console if you need anything before then." He paused, meeting my eyes briefly in the mirror. "And don't worry about the windows. Nobody can see in. You're completely private."
He'd said that for me. Specifically for me. Because he knew, or Sarah had told him, or maybe it was just standard protocol for relocating someone like me.
Someone who couldn't handle being seen.
The engine started with barely a whisper. So quiet I almost didn't hear it, just felt the subtle vibration through the seat. The truck ahead of us rumbled to life with a deeper, more obvious sound.
And then we were moving.
Pulling away from the curb, from that building that had housed our suffering for three years, from the neighborhood where I'd become a ghost.
I pressed my hand against the tinted window, watching the building recede. Fourth floor, second window from the left—that had been my room. My prison. My sanctuary. The place where I'd written that diary, where I'd cried myself to sleep more nights than I could count, where I'd woken up every morning with that poisonous question.
*Goodbye,* I thought. And this time, I meant it as a promise, not a threat.
The city passed by outside like a dream I was waking from. Streets I'd walked three years ago when we first arrived, full of hope and fear. The campus in the distance where I'd attended classes until I couldn't anymore. The library—
"That's where you met Professor Laura, isn't it?" Sarah asked, noticing where I was looking.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"She talks about you, you know," Sarah continued, her tone casual but warm. "Says you're the most dedicated researcher she's encountered in years. That you ask the right questions—the impossible ones that most people are afraid to even consider."
The words settled over me strangely. Professor Laura talked about me? Thought I was dedicated? Saw me as a researcher and not just...
"She's been preparing for your arrival for weeks," Sarah added. "Making sure everything was perfect. The house, the lab setup, your work schedule. She's very particular about details."
I wanted to ask more, but exhaustion was pulling at me. The sleepless night catching up, the adrenaline draining away now that we were moving, now that the decision was made and couldn't be unmade.
Mom was already crying again, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she watched our neighborhood disappear. But these tears were different somehow. Not pure grief. Something more complicated—relief and sadness and hope all mixed together.
Dad's hand found hers, their fingers interlacing. His other hand reached for mine, and I took it. The three of us connected in the back seat of this expensive car, being driven toward a future we couldn't quite imagine.
I looked down at my free hand—pale as always, too pale. The hand of someone who avoided sunlight, who hid from the world. But it wasn't shaking anymore. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, it was steady.
The city thinned as we drove, buildings giving way to suburbs with their neat houses and green lawns. Then to stretches of road lined with trees beginning to show spring colors—pale green leaves, white blossoms, signs of life returning after winter.
We merged onto a highway, and the truck ahead of us settled into a steady rhythm. The landscape opened up, becoming less crowded, more peaceful.
Sarah turned in her seat, offering a gentle smile. "There's water in the compartment beside you, and snacks if you're hungry. We'll stop in about three hours at a rest area, or sooner if anyone needs."
"Thank you," Mom managed, her voice small and wondering.
I found the water—cold bottles that must have been refrigerated recently. Opened one and drank, the coolness shocking against my throat. When was the last time I'd had cold water? When was the last time anyone had thought about what I might need?
The motion of the car was soothing. Steady and smooth, the expensive suspension absorbing the road's imperfections. I leaned back against the leather, watching the world pass by through tinted glass that kept me separate and safe.
My eyelids felt heavy. So heavy. The sleepless night, the emotional morning, the relief of finally moving—all of it pressed down on me like a weighted blanket.
"You can sleep if you want," Sarah said softly, noticing. "We've got a long drive ahead."
Sleep. In a car. Where anything could happen, where I couldn't control what I looked like or what I said or—
But I was so tired. So bone-deep exhausted.
And Professor Laura would be at the other end. Laura, who'd seen me crying in my sleep in the library and hadn't judged. Who'd stayed nearby to make sure I was okay. Who'd chosen me for this impossible project.
Laura, who I'd seen countless times in the library. Who I almost knew, in that weird way you know someone you've shared space with but never spoken to. Someone familiar, even if we'd barely exchanged words.
That thought—that Laura would be there—made it feel safer somehow.
My eyes closed.
The hum of the engine became a lullaby. The motion of the car rocked me gently. Mom's hand in mine, Dad's steady breathing beside me, Sarah's quiet presence in front—all of it created a cocoon of safety I hadn't felt in years.
I let go.
Let myself fall into sleep, trusting for the first time in forever that when I woke up, things might actually be better.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But better.
Different.
Worth waking up for.
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