There's a strange calm in waking up without the clatter of Mom banging pots like it's a percussion concert, or Dad humming that same old tune from the '80s like it's a sacred ritual. No shouting from my sister either—no "Where's my charger?!" like we all stole it in turns for sport.
Silence.
I blink up at the white ceiling of my condo and let the silence sink in. It's... unsettling.
The place smells like fresh paint, new wood, and just a hint of plastic wrap. Not bad—like a furniture showroom pretending to be a home. My bed's fresh out of the box, sheets still too crisp, pillows way too enthusiastic. The room is spacious, clean, and a little too quiet. It's weird. Like moving into a luxury cage. Comfortable, sure—but it doesn't feel like mine yet.
I sat up on the edge of the bed and stared at the bare walls. First morning in my own place. No posters, no clutter—just pale, quiet emptiness and the faint hum of the fridge. My own rules now. My own space. My own fridge—stocked generously by my mother, of course. Typical.
Still, I feel... good.
I grab my phone and scroll without thinking, just enjoying the peace.
Then I remember yesterday.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Mom asked for the fifth time, her hands anxiously wringing the same dish towel she brought from home.
"It's a condo, Mom. Not a jungle."
"But there's no one here to cook for you! Who's going to iron your shirts?"
"I'm in college, not the army."
"And if someone breaks in—?"
Dad, who'd been unusually quiet, finally cut in with a grunt. "They'll probably trip over all the boxes and knock themselves out."
He looked around the unit with a proud nod, even if he wiped his eyes three times using his grease-stained handkerchief. "You've got space. Sunlight. A lock. That's more than I had in my first apartment."
"Wasn't your first apartment a storage shed behind a bakery?" I asked.
"Best-smelling two years of my life," he said with a grin.
My sister barged in next, already in scrubs, tossing a grocery bag onto the counter. "Here. Snacks. Also, drink water. And if you catch a fever, don't Google it and scare yourself. Text me. Don't be stupid."
"And what about your charger?" I asked, eyeing her wrist.
"Crap. Where is it?!" she spun around like a malfunctioning robot. "You took it again, didn't you?!"
"I live here now."
"That doesn't mean you're not a thief."
Then came my brother, cool as ever in his suit, sliding a thick brown envelope across the table like he was handing over secret documents.
"Tax survival kit," he said. "You're an adult now. Learn how deductions work."
"Wow, thanks. Just what I always wanted. Misery in paperback form."
He shrugged. "Freedom isn't free."
When they finally left—after Mom kissed my forehead like I was off to war—I stood in the middle of the room and soaked it in.
Silence.
Now, it's just me. No arguments, no background noise, no voices except the ones in my head.
And maybe… that's the weirdest part.
I stretch like a lazy cat, limbs sinking into the unnervingly soft mattress I now call mine. The bed is big, new, and smells faintly of plastic and factory linen. Morning light spills through the curtains, soft and muted. It's quiet here—eerily so. No clatter of dishes, no footsteps outside my door. Just me, this room, and the creeping suspicion that my spine actually misses the old chaos of home.
"Luxury living," I mutter to the ceiling.
Sunlight slips through the blinds and plants a warm slap right across my face. I groan, throw a limp arm over my eyes like a tragic hero, then give up and fumble for my phone on the floor.
9:48 a.m. Way too early to be productive. Just early enough to feel vaguely responsible for being awake.
I unlock the phone and start scrolling, thumb gliding over the screen in a well-practiced ritual of half-conscious indulgence.
Group chat: 87 messages. All my high school friends pretending college is already some wild, life-changing experience—when in reality, we're all just waiting for orientation and stressing over which email is the real one from the registrar.
Skip.
News app: Apparently someone's dog became a mayor again. Honestly, not the worst candidate we've had.
Skip.
Social media:
A guy from senior year now looks like a full-grown lumberjack. When did he grow a beard thick enough to house wildlife?
Skip.
A girl I've never spoken to just posted a reel captioned "new apartment vibes." Hers has plants and filtered sunlight. Mine has untouched furniture and a rice cooker I still haven't figured out.
Skip.
I roll onto my side, sinking deeper into the mattress, letting the lazy buzz of content wash over me. There's something hypnotic about it—like drifting through a digital soup of other people's lives.
Honestly, I still can't believe it.
I passed the hardest college entrance exam in the country, somehow landing a spot in the most prestigious university like I stumbled into it by accident. My name was there—real, legible, and spelled correctly—on the top thirty list of national qualifiers. I stared at it for a solid ten minutes, refreshed the page, checked it again. Still there.
"Maybe there's another guy with the same name," I muttered.
Then I checked my ID.
Nope. Still me.
Even now, part of me expects an email to show up saying, "Oops. Clerical error. You were supposed to be in... accounting school. In the next province over."
But so far, no email. No refund. No scam. Just me, sitting on my comfortable bed in my sleek one-bedroom condo—granted, the "breathtaking view" is mostly a nearby convenience store's slightly rusted rooftop, but hey, a roof is a roof.
Youngest in the family, and now officially the third bragging right at the dinner table.
My brother, of course, was quick to act cool about it.
"You're lucky," he said, leaning against the kitchen counter during move-in day, adjusting his tie like he was on a courtroom break. "When I got in, Dad gave me a two-hour lecture about not getting anyone pregnant."
"Don't worry," I told him. "No one likes me that much."
He grinned. "Smart. Keep it that way."
Then there's my sister, still in her scrubs, bouncing between giving me tips and trying to rearrange my spice rack like it was a patient's vitals chart.
"Hydrate," she said, handing me a jumbo water bottle like it was sacred. "And this fridge is empty. Where's your protein? Your vitamins? Your—wait, is that ice cream for breakfast?!"
"It's got calcium," I said.
"And cholesterol," she snapped back. "You'll die before midterms."
"Perfect. One less subject to worry about."
Mom cried, obviously. She hugged me so tightly I couldn't breathe for a full minute and then started cleaning surfaces that had already been cleaned by the condo staff.
"I know you're a big boy now," she said, while disinfecting the microwave for the third time, "but text me when you eat, okay? Just so I know you haven't starved to death."
Dad was less emotional, more... practical.
"You lock the door?" he asked. "Double-check the stove? Make sure your SIM card works? The government's tracking people these days."
"Thanks, Dad. Comforting."
Still, I could see the pride in his eyes. He even clapped a hand on my shoulder before they left and said, "You've earned this. Don't let the convenience store rooftop fool you."
My family love me. I know that. I've never had to doubt it—not when Mom kept sneaking another bag of frozen adobo into the cooler, or when Dad filled my toolbox like I'd be constructing a bomb shelter, or when my siblings fought over who gave me the better advice. (Spoiler: it was definitely not the taxes.)
And now, here I am.
Alone for the first time in my life.
Free... and a little bored.
Like standing on a mountain for the first time and realizing: "Huh. Neat. So what now?"
I swipe through social media, memes, emails, even a few class group chats that are already starting to get noisy. It's peaceful. Nothing urgent, nothing dramatic.
Then I see it.
A gray icon on my home screen. No title. Just static gray, like a missing thumbnail. The name beneath it is a mess of random letters—"kjsh34HJKL" or something like that.
I blink. Did I install something weird by accident?
Curious, I hold my thumb over it, ready to uninstall.
But instead of holding… I tap.
Tsk.