NINETEEN IN NEW YORK

AMARA'S POV If you had told eighteen-year-old me that I’d be planning a birthday in New York, I would’ve laughed first. Not a cute laugh. The is-this-even-real? kind of laugh. Because where I come from, dreams don’t usually announce themselves with plane tickets and hotel confirmations. They show up quietly, sit beside you while you’re tired, and ask, Are you serious enough to work for me? Apparently, I was. Most mornings, I woke up before my alarm even had the chance to embarrass me. I’d reach for my phone, squint at the screen, and immediately regret my life choices—until I saw notifications come in. Orders. Messages. Sales. Okay. Maybe life wasn’t that bad. I worked from my room, hunched over my laptop like someone twice my age, hair wrapped up, headphones on, pretending I was in a very serious office instead of my childhood home. Online business wasn’t glamorous, but it paid. And more importantly, it was mine. Some days I felt unstoppable. Other days I stared at my screen like, So… this is what ambition feels like? Right above my desk was a picture of New York City at night. I’d printed it years ago when the idea felt more like a joke than a plan. Now, every time I looked at it, my chest did this funny little flip—half excitement, half disbelief. The visa process almost made me lose my sense of humor. Almost. There’s something humbling about waiting rooms and paperwork that ask you to prove your entire existence in documents. I rehearsed interview answers in my head, out loud, and once accidentally to my reflection like we were having a TED Talk. “Hi, yes. I’m very responsible,” I told the mirror. “Please let me into your country.” When the approval email finally came, I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds before reacting. Then I laughed. Then I gasped. Then I read it again, because maybe my eyes were lying. They weren’t. “I’m going to New York,” I said out loud, just to hear how it sounded. My mom hugged me like she was proud and terrified at the same time. My dad smiled that quiet, emotional smile that meant more than words. And me? I walked around the house for the rest of the day shaking my head like, Wow. Amara. You actually did that. Eli was next. Me: Visa approved. The reply came fast. Eli: Knew it. New York better behave. I laughed so hard I had to sit down. That was Eli—effortlessly supportive, casually dramatic, and always acting like he wasn’t just as excited as I was. Traveling with him felt safe. Easy. No weird expectations. No hidden feelings. Just vibes and loyalty. Once everything was confirmed, life turned into one long countdown. Flights booked. Hotel secured. Savings checked like it might suddenly vanish if I didn’t look at it enough times. I made lists for everything—what to pack, what not to forget, what I’d probably still forget anyway. I worked harder than ever, not because I was scared, but because I wanted to step into New York knowing I earned every moment of it. The night before the flight, I laid my clothes out on my bed like I was preparing for a fashion show no one asked for. I folded everything neatly, then unfolded some things because I changed my mind. My passport? That thing barely left my hands. I checked it. Then checked it again. Then whispered, “Please don’t disappear,” before putting it safely in my bag. When my suitcase finally zipped shut, I sat there staring at it like it might start talking. This wasn’t just a trip. This was me keeping a promise to myself. My phone buzzed. Eli: Sleep. Big day tomorrow. I snorted. Me: Sleep and I are not on speaking terms tonight. I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, laughing softly to myself. I was scared, sure—but I was also excited in a way that made fear feel small. Tomorrow, I’d be on a plane. Tomorrow, I’d land in New York. Tomorrow, I’d officially begin my journey into nineteen. And honestly? I still couldn’t believe this was my life.