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intheheartTitle: Day One
Rating: PG
Summary: Gina's first night as a grownup.
Notes: I hope someone else felt like this.
It's kind of funny, how empty your apartment gets as soon as your parents leave.
You wave goodbye to them and turn around and it's like the tundra has opened up, big and cold and barren. Your things are still in cardboard boxes, lined up neatly against the wall—you and your dad hauled them up this afternoon, complaining good-naturedly, while your mom made lemonade in your new kitchen. It occurs to you that it was the last time she'll make you lemonade on a hot day.
When you were a kid, you couldn't wait to grow up. You thought grownups made all the rules, had all the answers. You've grown up now but there aren't any answers, and the rules have only gotten worse.
You should be getting some dinner, or something. Your mother told you to be sure to eat. She was crying on the way out the door.
You think she knew.
You don't really know where to go from here, or what to do. You start your new job on Monday, and that's fine, but that's Monday and it's four days away. You don't know anyone in this city. You don't know anything about this city. You just know that you're here, on your own. You just know what you don't know.
This apartment has a big window and a gorgeous view, or at least you thought so when you chose it. In the red summer sunset it looks more ominous than welcoming.
You go to your bed, the one piece of furniture you have right now, and curl up under the quilt your mother made for you, with the worn-out rabbit you've had since you were a baby. When you were a kid you used to hide under the covers when you were scared, clutching your rabbit to your chest, just like this.
You're pleased to find it still makes you feel safe.
Rating: PG
Summary: Gina's first night as a grownup.
Notes: I hope someone else felt like this.
It's kind of funny, how empty your apartment gets as soon as your parents leave.
You wave goodbye to them and turn around and it's like the tundra has opened up, big and cold and barren. Your things are still in cardboard boxes, lined up neatly against the wall—you and your dad hauled them up this afternoon, complaining good-naturedly, while your mom made lemonade in your new kitchen. It occurs to you that it was the last time she'll make you lemonade on a hot day.
When you were a kid, you couldn't wait to grow up. You thought grownups made all the rules, had all the answers. You've grown up now but there aren't any answers, and the rules have only gotten worse.
You should be getting some dinner, or something. Your mother told you to be sure to eat. She was crying on the way out the door.
You think she knew.
You don't really know where to go from here, or what to do. You start your new job on Monday, and that's fine, but that's Monday and it's four days away. You don't know anyone in this city. You don't know anything about this city. You just know that you're here, on your own. You just know what you don't know.
This apartment has a big window and a gorgeous view, or at least you thought so when you chose it. In the red summer sunset it looks more ominous than welcoming.
You go to your bed, the one piece of furniture you have right now, and curl up under the quilt your mother made for you, with the worn-out rabbit you've had since you were a baby. When you were a kid you used to hide under the covers when you were scared, clutching your rabbit to your chest, just like this.
You're pleased to find it still makes you feel safe.
