Five Floors From Home

I don’t care what anyone says—today is not a good day.

Mom kept saying, “New beginnings are exciting, sweetie!” and smiling like that made everything better. But I didn’t ask for a new beginning. I liked the old one just fine.

I’m sitting on the back steps of our porch, the wood warm from the sun and chipped in the corners where I used to dig for bugs when I was little. Okay, littler. I’m ten now, which is practically eleven, and I’ve lived here since I was born. Every scratch on the railing, every weird creak on the third step down, it’s mine. And now they expect me to just… walk away?

No. Not happening.

“Eli,” Mom calls from the driveway. “We’re loading the last few boxes.”

I don’t answer. If I stay quiet long enough, maybe she’ll think I’ve disappeared and forget to make me get in the car.

We’re moving. Today. Not across town or anything normal like that. We’re going to Chicago. A big, loud, *cold* city with no backyard, no woods, no Liam next door, and definitely no Mrs. Patterson who gives me fresh cookies when she bakes too many. Just… tall buildings and honking and strangers everywhere.

Dad says it’s for a “great job opportunity.” I say it’s a great way to ruin everything.

I kick at a rock on the ground, watching it tumble into the grass. I wonder how long it’ll stay there before someone else finds it—if anyone ever does. Maybe it’ll just stay here forever, like a little piece of me stuck in the dirt.

Liam came over this morning. He didn’t say much. Just gave me one of his cool Pokémon cards and said, “Trade you for that Charizard you never use.” He was lying, though. He didn’t want my Charizard. He just wanted me to keep something of his. I gave him the card, even though it was one of my favorites. I didn’t want to cry, so I ran inside right after.

I hear the car trunk slam shut. “Eli, we really need to go, honey.”

I finally stand up, brushing dirt from my shorts. I turn around and look at the house. It’s empty now. Even my room—where the sunlight used to spill in just right on Saturday mornings—is bare. The curtains are gone, the rug is rolled up, and the stickers on my closet door have been peeled away like they never existed.

I want to be brave. Dad said that last night. “You’re a brave kid, Eli. Braver than I was at your age.”

But I don’t feel brave. I feel like someone stuffed my stomach with wet cement and turned my arms into noodles.

I climb into the back seat, shutting the door quietly. Mom looks at me in the rearview mirror. She smiles, but her eyes are sad around the edges.

“You okay back there?”

I shrug. I don’t trust my voice. If I open my mouth, I might say something like, “Turn around,” or “Let’s stay,” or “I hate this,” and I know they’re just trying to do what’s best. But best for who?

The car starts moving. Slowly. Like it knows it shouldn’t be leaving.

I press my face to the window, watching our house get smaller. Then we pass the old mailbox with the dent from last winter. Then the corner where I learned to ride my bike. Then Maple Lane disappears completely.

I don’t cry.

Not then.

(Later)

Chicago is huge.

I knew that, but it still smacks me in the face when we get there. People rush around like they’re on fire. Cars honk constantly, even when no one’s doing anything wrong. And the sky looks smaller somehow, like the buildings are trying to eat it.

Our new apartment is on the fifth floor. There’s no backyard. Just a tiny balcony with a rusty railing and a view of another brick wall. The inside smells like fresh paint and lemon cleaner. Too clean. Too new.

My room has a window that barely opens and walls the color of mashed potatoes. None of my stuff is unpacked yet. My books are in boxes. My bed frame hasn’t even arrived, so I’m sleeping on a mattress on the floor like a guest in my own life.

I hate it.

Dad tries to cheer me up by letting me pick the pizza place for dinner. I pick one that looks kind of like the one back home, but the pizza’s floppy and weird and has too much cheese. I don’t say anything, though. I just eat one slice and push the rest around on my plate.

At night, I stare at the ceiling and think about Maple Lane.

I miss the crickets. I miss the way our screen door used to squeak open. I miss Liam’s knock—three short raps and one long. I miss our treehouse and the jar of jellybeans we kept up there, even though they got all stuck together in the summer.

I keep waiting for this to stop feeling like a vacation. But it’s not. This is real. And I don’t know how to make it feel like mine.

A week later, school starts. It’s worse than I imagined.

Everyone already knows each other. They all have matching sneakers and say things like “bro” and “cap” and wear their backpacks on just one shoulder. I try that and my bag falls off.

The teacher, Ms. Langston, is nice, but she talks too fast and gives too much homework. And nobody wants to sit with me at lunch, except this kid named Theo who only eats cucumbers and smells like glue.

I try to talk about Pokémon with him, but he says he only plays Fortnite. I say I’ve never played and he laughs. Not mean, just surprised. But I still feel stupid.

When I get home that day, I slam the front door. Mom looks up from her laptop.

“Bad day?”

I don’t answer. I stomp into my room and close the door. I want to scream or break something or teleport home.

Instead, I curl up under the blanket and let it happen.

The crying.

The shaking.

The aching in my chest like I left something behind and can never get it back.

Later that night, Mom brings me hot chocolate with too many marshmallows, just how I like it. She doesn’t say anything, just sits next to me on the floor.

After a while, she whispers, “I miss it, too.”

I blink at her. “You do?”

She nods. “A lot. Our garden. The swing. Sunday mornings at the little café.”

“Then why’d we come here?” My voice cracks.

She takes a long breath. “Because we thought it would help us grow. Sometimes you need to be somewhere new to see what else is possible.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know how to explain that I don’t want anything else. I just wanted what we had.

Weeks pass.

Theo turns out to be pretty cool, actually. He shows me how to play Fortnite (I’m terrible), and I teach him how to trade Pokémon cards. He says mashed potato walls are ugly but kind of comforting, like soup. We both agree soup walls would be gross.

Dad finds a little park a few blocks away. It has a climbing wall and a pond with ducks that fight each other for bread. We go there on Saturdays, and he times how fast I can cross the monkey bars. I beat my old record last week.

Liam sends me a postcard. It’s a drawing of our treehouse with “I saved you some jellybeans (kinda)” written in blue pen.

I laugh so hard I almost cry.

I still miss home. Every day. But sometimes, when the wind hits just right, the air in Chicago smells a little like Maple Lane in the fall—crisp and earthy and full of things I haven’t seen yet.

I don’t know if this place will ever feel the same.

But maybe it doesn’t have to.

Maybe it just needs time.

And maybe—I do, too.