𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | ✓

4

I trudge to the subway.

In the past few months, five to be exact, I've realized I hate public transportations.

No matter what, the awful stench of iron, sweat, dirt, and whatever subways smell of is unbearable for me.

The rush hour is the worst. Not to mention, the fear of falling between the train and the platform, even though I won't pass through it, has me fidgeting each time. Oh, and also being in the middle of the door while it's sliding shut.

Terrors of a modern twenty-one-year-old city girl.

I push my hands into my jeans' pocket as I wait for the next train to arrive. Tapping my foot on the once light gray stone now darkened by grime, I warily glance at both sides, surveying the almost empty area with its few occupants.

Nothing nears the comfort of having a driver, waiting outside campus grounds, with the door of the black Mercedes we had, open and ready for me. Nor can it surpass the comfortable leather seat of my dark blue Lamborghini.

I sigh and gaze at the ugly stone ground. For a moment, I close my eyes, flashes of that awful evening burst behind my eyelids. I snap them wide. Ragged breathing tears out of my throat matching my erratic heartbeat.

No use thinking about things I no longer possess. I bite my bottom lip. Things I can never have again.

Five months is nowhere near enough for getting used to this lifestyle.

Not a year ago, if I wanted to see my parents, I would have called my personal pilot to prepare my private jet. I would've hopped on it, spent a few hours in San Francisco with my family, and then return to New York.

As of now, I stride into the cabin and dash to the empty seat.

I hug my rucksack to my chest. Clothes, bags, and shoes are the only items left from that glorious span. Mom and Dad made me swear I won't sell my possessions under any circumstances in order to support them financially. To prevent reflecting on these things, I shut my eyes and press my head to the cool glass.

The question I stumbled across back in Professor Wright's office resurfaces in my mind. I gladly dig up the details from the bottom of my memory and play around with the problem and the viable solution.

Anything's better than delving into the shitshow my life is.

Time flies as I struggle to recall everything I've read about Riemann theory and surfaces.

Soon the monotone female voice announces my destination and I prepare myself to get off.

Out of the subway station, I walk down the alleys I never expected existed in New York to reach my parents' current home.

I wrap my jacket tighter around my body and ignore the prying eyes of guys who wouldn't have been qualified to even be our chauffeur.

Finally, I spot the ancient three-story building. Two old men perching on the side of the entrance are busy arguing about their favorite sports teams, guessing this game's champion. Empty beer cans lay at their feet. I pay them no heed and go into the narrow space.

I climb up the stairs, careful not to touch the wall as I ascend. The paint is chapped and falling off, the stench of garbage assaults my nostrils and rubs the back of my throat like sandpaper. My heart aches and breaks once more just by seeing the haunting truth of my parents' present living location.

With a deep breath, I compose myself and push my shoulders back. I stop in front of my parents' home, plaster on a smile before knocking.

Faint footsteps get louder and seconds later the door swings open and Mom's face appears. She grins as she takes me in and steps aside for me to enter.