I put away the last books on my bed and close the box. I look around my room and now all I can see are blank walls. The bed is barely there, and the movers will be arriving soon to get it. I've been packing my whole life away in boxes. I don't feel sad, nor happy. It's not like I had any say in this trip. My mother has already done it for both of us; it's a good job and very well-paid. I don't have a father; my mother got pregnant very young, and he didn't want to take responsibility. It doesn't hurt what you've never had, it would be worse to have had it in my life and then it was gone, so I guess this is just adapting to circumstances.