Sand in my shoes

3 years ago

On a sunny day, yes, a sunny day, our whole family went to the beach for our annual family bonding day. Even though we are already pre-adults now, there is something that keeps pulling us back together. I mean, family is always there, right? And plus, today was different. It wasn't just Michael's sweet 16—but mine too. Farewell, childhood. It wasn’t something big: just us gathered for a definite, unforgettable day.

Our parents were already there when we arrived. Elijah, our older brother, drove us over since Michael wasn't ready yet. Mom laid out the towels, Dad was taking out the drinks, cheap soda cans but it was just what I liked. The sun cast a golden hue over the sand, and the scent of saltwater mingled with the laughter of children building sandcastles. It was indeed a pleasant sight. As I watched Michael laugh with our parents, I couldn't help but wonder if this would be the last time our family gathered like this. We were a working family, and my parents did their best. They could support us through college, but that was where their resources ended. No lavish vacations or startups on businesses. No trust funds. Just us, working hard for what we had. Dad always joked to us that, if we wanted to become those rich kids, we would have to work our ass off, if that wasn’t enough. He told us that “no kiddo just suddenly built a whole industry themselves, one success meant hundreds of people behind, if not thousands,” and sipped from his 1980s mug. He was undeniably right. No overnight successes. No such stories existed of the ones you see on TV and new channels. It all came with a price.

Present

That was three years ago. And I haven’t been to the beach since.

These days, the closest I get to the term, beach, is the sand that is trapped inside my Nike from the construction sites that I pass every day. I barely paid the rent for this flat — a high-rise just outside of downtown, thirty-three floors, room 202. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlook nothing but traffic and blinking billboards, and the neon lights that occasionally spill onto my sofa make it look as if this effect were deliberate. Some people would call this view success for such a young age. Others just use the term “made it”. And I used to be one of them.

Mornings blur into evenings. My calendar is color-coded chaos, my inbox is a graveyard of flagged emails I’ll never open. From college intern recommendations and “what you need to know for being a sophomore” emails to reminders of different interviews, my computer is an absolute disaster that you wouldn't want to get near. Moreover, I'm interning at one of the “top 30 companies to die working for,” according to someone’s LinkedIn post. It’s the kind of place where people wear exhaustion like a badge of honor and order Chinese takeout at 11 p.m. because it’s “too late to cook.”

I stare at the computer screen. The cursor blinks. I blink back.

Then a reminder pops up:

OUR BIRTHDAYS: Michael and Amy (19!!!)

For a moment, I forget where I am. I see Michael’s face, wide-eyed and smiling as if even if the world is crashing, he would still spend his last moments like this. And me, watching him as I swam to the deeper part of the ocean. I remember the sound of my dad cracking open soda cans and telling us no one builds an empire alone. I remember thinking I would be the exception.

Now I sit in a room built of steel and silence, choking on deadlines and dreams.

This isn't what I signed up for. I signed up for a promising career, a fulfilling path that led me to nothing but glory and success. But this? It was nothing like what I thought.

My phone rang, it’s bursting with the ringtone that I knew so badly and was caught by surprise. Michael? Really? I hit accept.

“Hi, Amy,” Michael’s nervous but cold tone came out of the phone and the image of him laughing disappeared, replaced by his grim, sour expression that was for me, the last time we met. Why would he call me?

“Hey,” I replied with a flat tone, “What are you calling me for?”

The other side remained silent for, it seems, an hour before Michael just chuckled. But that wasn't a full hearted chuckle, it was the one that escaped his lips when he realized how foolish he had been.

“Nevermind, Happy Birthday Amy, and I wish you the best.”

Then, he hung up the phone and left me frozen as I heard beep-beep sounds repeatedly. I chased everything they told me would matter. Now I can’t feel anything.

1 year ago

“Amy! Come in, we’re taking a photo before you leave again.”

Elijah’s voice came through as I came over. The photo, in fact, was still in the bottom of my drawer next to my room. It was a great take: everyone together smiling their heads off and whatever. But, it was the last photo. Last one before I took off again and this time, never came back. It was before I broke contact, and missed Elijiah’s birthday for the first time, for the record.

I took off the next morning. That night, April 29th at 8:03pm, was the last time I saw any of them. Or the house. Or the neighborhood. Or the town.

Present

I scroll to the bottom of my inbox. It's like sifting through old ashes—reminders of versions of me that once existed. Buried in there is an email I never opened. The subject line is in all caps:

"YOU PROMISED TO COME THIS TIME."

It’s from Elijah.

The date? Two months ago.

I can’t even remember what I was doing that day. Probably buried under spreadsheets or fake-smiling through a networking event, pretending the future was still exciting.

I close the laptop. Not just the tab. The whole thing. For the first time in months, I feel something that isn’t tiredness nor guilt. It’s sharper. Restless.

I get up and walk to the window. Same view. Same traffic. But now it looks different. Like I'm outside of it somehow, watching a version of me live a life that isn't mine.

Maybe the version of success I bought into wasn’t built for people like us — the “no trust fund, work your ass off” kind of kids. Or maybe I just got lost chasing something that never existed in the first place.

I pick up the phone. Not to scroll. To call.

I type in Michael’s number. Pause.

Then I delete it.

Instead, I open the drawer. The photos are still there, slightly bent at the corner, still smiling back at me like nothing ever changed. I hold it for a while. Just hold it.

Then I start packing.

I don’t know where I’m going yet.

But I know one thing: I’m done choosing success over my soul.

Why? Because this was not what I signed up for.

Not what I signed up for when I was 16, not 18, and not in present.