𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓛𝓲𝓵𝔂

𝓒𝓗𝓐𝓟𝓣𝓔𝓡 𝓣𝓦𝓞

𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻-𝓒𝓸𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓗𝓸𝓼𝓽

⌘ ❦ ⌘

O R M

       I AWOKE TO the unsettling awareness that today marked a turning point. My mind was a whirlwind of scattered thoughts, each one pulling at a different emotion. Excitement danced alongside a sense of unease, leaving me teetering between anticipation and dread.

Today, I would be moving into the home of a stranger—my childhood friend’s partner’s best friend—who would host me for the last two semesters of college.

The idea had worried me from the start. I had tried to convince Dustin I could find my own place, the prospect of imposing on someone’s personal space making my stomach churn. But Dustin, with his persuasive charm and unwavering concern, had countered every argument. He was right—the city was a maze of uncertainty, and finding something stable and safe was not easy. Eventually, I surrendered, though the decision left a lingering sense of vulnerability I could not shake.

My belongings were already packed and waiting at Dustin and Nathan’s place, the boxes a physical reminder of the changes ahead. My mother had requested that I join her for lunch before the move. It was Saturday, and the city outside felt alive, pulsing with the energy of weekend freedom, a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil within me.

Facing the restaurant, I regarded its rich brick exterior. The dark, warm bricks formed a solid and inviting facade, complemented by large, arched windows that hinted at the cozy atmosphere inside. But the welcoming sight did little to calm the queasiness stirring in my gut.

Meeting my mother always felt like an emotional endurance test. My nerves hummed with tension, jangling like a poorly tuned guitar string. “Go on, Orm,” I silently coached myself, “you’re not walking into a minefield!”

Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that mending our strained relationship required effort from both sides. With my heart pounding, I finally willed my legs to move and stepped inside, hoping I could keep my emotions in check.

I spotted her immediately. Dr. Koy, my mother, sat at a corner table, her posture impeccable, her expression a carefully constructed mask. Her reputation as a renowned clinical psychologist preceded her, and sometimes her calm demeanor felt more like a professional stance than a maternal one.

As I approached, I noticed the table already laden with my favorite dishes, a gesture that both warmed and unsettled me. She knew my tastes, yet the emotional distance between us was still palpable.

“Hello, Orm,” she greeted, her voice a measured mix of cordiality and reserve.

“Hi, Mom,” I replied, sliding into the seat opposite her. I forced a casual smile, trying to mask the knot of tension coiled tight in my chest.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries, the conversation stilted, almost painfully formal. I picked at the Pad Thai, my fingers deftly twirling the noodles. My mother was meticulous in everything she did, ordering my favorite dishes was her way of reaching out. But letting her see that it mattered felt like giving too much away.

“How’s school?” she asked, her eyes keenly observing me. “Are you settling in comfortably at your new university? How’s it going?”

I paused, allowing her words to settle. The question lingered in the air, weaving through the jumble of thoughts in my mind. I mentally sifted through the past three months—the chaotic rush of transferring, the towering stack of paperwork that seemed endless, and the tedious meetings with advisors that felt like an obstacle course. I recalled the initial feeling of disorientation as I navigated this unfamiliar territory.