"Wake up! We're here," my mother's voice slices through my dream.

I'm dancing with my father, the radio playing in the background. His powerful voice rings out louder than the music—singing to me—as we move across the sunlit porch. Standing on his feet, we swirl and twirl through the air. I feel free.

In the moment, the world stands still and everything is perfect—until my mother's voice rings out again, dragging me back. "Get up, we're here."

The scent of his cologne and the sound of his laughter fade into the stale air of the car.

Lifting my head, my neck throbs, and my shoulder is stiff from sleeping against the door.

I blink several times, trying to hold onto the sight of my father's smiling face, but all I get is my mom's hand shaking my leg, her voice sharp with impatience. "Rebekkah, get up now!"

I must've dozed off at some point, after watching countless mountains and trees whiz by.

The car smells like fast food—April's sausage biscuit, Mom's coffee—and sweat. My sister's face is pressed to the window, a smudge of grease on her chin, her eyes wide open.

My mouth is dry as I yawn, searching for my earbuds that have escaped and are nestled between the seats, still playing music—but it's not enough to drown out my mother.

"This is the last time, Rebekkah! Get up, now!" she snaps, throwing the car in park.

Groaning, I rub my tired eyes, and the memory of my father's smile flickers in my mind. I glance at the empty seat beside me; a hollow ache settles in my chest.

The only sounds are our breaths and the clicks of April's phone as she photographs the scenery. The stillness grates on me. I need to escape this car before I completely unravel.

A rush of cool air floods the car as April flings open her door, and Mom leans down to grab her purse from the floorboard—finishing her coffee before tossing the rest onto the asphalt.

"Don't forget your trash, April," Mom reminds her as April steps out of the car, but she chooses to ignore her.

Opening my door, I step out onto the pavement, taking a deep breath. The fresh salty air fills my lungs—clean and fresh, compared to home.

Looking around the parking lot, it's packed with cars and people. A sign attached to the nearest post reads Lot D.

My eyes scan over the campus map's colored blocks and symbols, finding our location.

We're in the lot closest to the main buildings—with classrooms and other offices.

The massive buildings are constructed of grayish-white stone, with large windows that reflect the sun's rays.

Lush greenery sprinkled with white flowers and tall, thick trees lines the paths winding between the structures.

Twirling in circles, I try to take everything in at once, but there's too much.

My eyes dart between the people, buildings, and scenery, landing on a group of students across the quad. Seated at a wooden picnic table, they're laughing and talking while eating lunch.

Various shops, restaurants, and other businesses line the roads behind them, with people walking in and out. Horns honk, cars screech, and the faint sound of music playing on the radio—all seem to seep into the university grounds.

Glancing back down, I locate student housing—nowhere near here.

"Ugh," I groan, my shoulders slump, kicking at the white lines on the asphalt.

Looking around, I search for something easily remembered—my mom's little trick to keep track of her car.

Noticing right away the enormous flags from around the world towering over us—she's one step ahead, like always.

A bronze statue of an army general stands proudly in the middle of them. Knelt on one knee, his left arm at his side, his right hand resting against his forehead. An inscription reads: "The bravest hearts are those who never surrender."

"Mom, let's get this over with," April whines, tapping her foot.

"Do you ever stop complaining?" I hiss, under my breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

"April, stop," Mom says with her back to us—April seizes the moment, flipping me off, which I return.

"Bex, do you remember your dorm number?" Mom asks, turning around to face me, her eyes squinty from the sun, not noticing April walking off.

"Yeah, Mom, it's C35. I double-checked before we left," I mutter, studying all the new faces walking in every direction.

Most of them seem to know where they're going, while some look just as lost as I do—with millions of emotions surging through them.

Hearing Mom pop the trunk, I yank my bags out, setting them beside me.

"April!" Mom yells, "Come help your sister carry her stuff."

She doesn't flinch—too busy staring at a group of football players.

My mom sighs. "I swear that girl is going to be the death of me."

Sometimes, I wish I could turn off my nerves the way she turns on her charm—so effortlessly. So unafraid, as she flirts, exhaling a large pink bubble from her gum, before it pops loudly and she sucks it back in.

Standing a few feet away, they're laughing and tossing an old, tattered football between them. All three are tall, with broad shoulders and athletic builds.

They're okay—dressed in worn jeans and matching blue and white letterman jackets with the school's logo across the back. They all have the same messy hair and tans that look more like sunburns, definitely her type, not mine.

"Why should I help her? She has two hands," April sneers. "Besides, I'm busy," she adds, continuing to stare, her eyes glued on the one in the middle—slightly taller than the others, with darker hair and a stronger build.

"It's okay. I don't need her help," I say quickly, throwing my backpack over my shoulders, but Mom steps forward, taking two of them.

"Thanks," I mutter, walking toward April—the second our shoulders touch, I know what's about to happen.

Hiding a smirk, I watch as April loses balance and stumbles sideways into one of the large bushes.

"Oops, my bad. Guess I couldn't see you over my bags," I chuckle, keeping my eyes on her as she struggles to untangle herself from the thorns. April's face is bright red, her cheeks puffed out, and her mouth open in a snarl.

But she doesn't say a word—not since I know her little secret. Mom would kill her if she knew her perfect little angel had been sneaking out to meet some mysterious boy behind her back.

Head down, rosy cheeks, April knocks the dirt and branches off her dress, straightening the glasses on top of her head.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her—almost.

Glaring at me, April turns and heads off, muttering something under her breath as she stomps away.

"Well, I guess that's one way to get her moving," my mom chuckles from behind.

"Yeah," I respond, biting my tongue.

Rearranging the bag on my shoulder, I follow behind—the sweet taste of victory lingers on my tongue.

Inside, it's nothing special: plain white walls and ugly tan tile floors. A few posters advertising school events and clubs, along with a large, faded campus map, are the only decorations.

It smells like old books and disinfectant as we continue past rows of rooms with doors painted the same tan color as the floors.

A large group of people stands waiting for the elevator—blocking the exit. Forced to stop, I watch as the numbers tick down before the heavy doors eventually slide open and more people spill out.

Those waiting rush forward, pushing to cram into the small space—leaving the rest of us standing in the hallway. Slowly closing, the metal—dented and scratched—bangs shut before the numbers start moving in the opposite direction.

"Great, just great," Mom mutters, exhaling a long breath.

The next elevator arrives, just as full as the first, but now, with enough people having moved, I spot an opening.

"Come on," I shout, grabbing my mom's hand. She grabs April's, and we push forward, shoving our way through the crowd toward freedom.

Slamming my palms against the cold metal bar, the door swings open, and we burst out into the bright sunlight, gasping for air.

"Ah, fresh air," Mom sighs, removing her sunglasses from her hair and placing them over her eyes. "Okay, which way?" she asks, looking around at the various signs.

"I think it's that way," I suggest, pointing to the left—a smoother path—with flat stones and steps that wind downward through a heavily treed area.

April brings up the rear, staying silent—other than her loud grunts every so often—still picking leaves from her nappy brown hair.

"Are we almost there?" April whines as we turn the corner, and the dorms finally come into view.

"Are you kidding me?" I snap, stopping and spinning around to face her. "Can't you read?" I mutter, pointing to the large sign reading, "Student Housing Campus."

"April, stop with the whining. And Bex, quit being a smart ass," Mom snaps, giving us both "that look," picking up the pace.

The dorms are a series of long, low buildings—connected by covered walkways—and made from the same stones with small wooden porches.

"Okay, building C. I think this is it," Mom says, pointing to the third building on the left.

A large red banner draped over the porch reads, "WELCOME FRESHMEN CLASS!" in glittery black letters.

"This must be it," I say, lugging my suitcase up the wooden steps—stopping to smell the sunflowers planted in various pots on the landing. Their bright yellow petals and dark centers brighten the space, leaving a sweet scent that lingers in the air.

Trembling, I take a deep breath as I grip the doorknob and push. My pulse quickens, taking the first step—my mind second-guesses everything I thought I was ready for.

Shaking the thoughts away, it's not as crowded as the last one, but of course, there's a line for the elevators, so stairs it is.

The muscles in my legs burn, and my side cramps as I reach the third floor and stop to catch my breath.

"Maybe you shouldn't have skipped the gym so much," April snickers, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. "Or eat a salad now and then."

Standing beside me, my mom's body tenses as she shoots April a warning stare, but April shrugs it off and looks away.

"Shut up, April," I snap, grabbing my bag and heading down the hall. "Look at you."

"Thirty-three, thirty-four..." I mutter, "...thirty-five, this is it." I stop in front of a black door with the number 35 tacked on in gold.

My heart pounds in my chest, and my palms grow slick as I fumble with my keys—searching for the one with the blob of red nail polish.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter, sliding it into the lock and slowly turning—click. The door creaks open.

My eyes fly around the room, taking in every detail. It's huge, with two beds: one covered in a solid black comforter, the other bare.

Barreling in and knocking into me, April makes a beeline straight for the empty bed. It sags under her as she flops down, bouncing a few times before lying back.

"This is it?" she asks, rolling onto her side, looking around the room. "It's so plain," she says, scrunching her nose.

Ignoring April, I casually browse around my roommate's side—I want to know as much about her as possible.

What kind of person is she? What makes her tick?

Judging by the posters above her head—featuring a boy band dressed in all-black leather outfits and heavily tattooed bodies—our styles are way different.

"Well, it looks like you two will get along great," April sneers. "She loves the color black, just like your soul," she chuckles, smirking at me from across the room.

"Mom, why are we still here?" April whines, tapping her fingers against her stomach.

"We do have to leave soon," my mom says, looking around at the bare walls and shiny wood floors, then finally at me.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks, as April groans loudly, kicking her feet against the bedframe. Mom's fingers trace the stitching on my jacket—like she's done since I was a child—bringing a sense of calm to my chaotic mind.

"Yes, Mom, I'm positive," I reassure her, "And I'll call you tonight after I get settled," I promise, digging at the dead skin of my cuticles.

"I know we've had our differences, but I love you, kiddo," she says, pulling me into a rare hug. It catches me off guard—she hasn't called me that in years—a twinge of sadness hits as her watery eyes meet mine.

"I know you won't believe me, but I'm going to miss you. It's going to be weird not having you around." She holds me tightly for a few seconds before letting go—a tear lands on the leather of my sleeve where her face rested.

"Yeah, it'll be quiet," April chimes in, standing up. "Too quiet," she murmurs, under her breath.

Are my ears playing tricks on me, or is April going to miss me?

"But I'm sure we'll survive," she throws in, adjusting her sweater.

"We've had a rough couple of years, Rebekkah. And I know I'm hard on you sometimes, but it's only because I want what's best for you," Mom says, looking down, her lips pressed together.

"It wasn't easy getting you in here. You know what I had to do, so please, don't go back," she warns, her voice firm, shoving it in my face one last time.

Tensing up, heat rises in my cheeks, and my teeth bite down on my lower lip.

"Not everyone gets a second chance," she says, with pleading eyes—a single tear trickling down her cheek.

I'm lost for a response.

Am I supposed to lie and promise I'm not going to screw up?

"As if she deserves it. This is a waste of time. And I'm ready to go, come on, Mom," April interrupts. "Plus I have plans tonight," she says, tossing a dirty look my way, already halfway out the door.

"I love you too. And I know. I won't screw up, promise," I whisper, unsure if I'm lying to her or myself.

The door shuts behind them; the silence is louder than anything.

Sitting on the bare mattress, my bags at my feet, I just breathe, letting the emptiness settle, my fingers playing with the zipper of my father's leather jacket.

Maybe, in this quiet, I can finally figure out who I'm supposed to be.

A metallic clatter breaks the silence—then, the squeak of the doorknob. I freeze. My new roommate's here—a strong scent of vanilla wafts in with her.

Suddenly, figuring out who I am seems secondary to simply getting by and making sure the real me remains hidden.