The plane smelled like recycled air and too much instant coffee. My head was pressed against the small oval window, cheek cold against the plastic, eyes staring out at the endless white clouds below. I'd been staring so long that my reflection felt like a stranger—my dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, the eyeliner smudged from crying halfway across the Pacific.
Alberta. The word still didn't fit in my mouth. Alberta was for cowboys and snow and people who probably said "eh" too much. I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to be in Shibuya, picking out bubble tea flavors with friends, maybe even cramming for midterms I had no intention of passing. But instead, I was the expelled girl.
Every school in Tokyo knew me. I wasn't just a rumor—I was the main character of every whispered hallway story. Fights, drama, love triangles that weren't even my fault. Maybe I liked the attention. Maybe I hated it. All I knew is, one by one, schools had stamped unwelcome on my forehead. And now, my mother's solution was exile.
"Fresh start," she had said. "No one knows you there."
Yeah. That was the point.
The seatbelt light blinked on. "We'll be landing in Calgary shortly," the flight attendant chirped in English, too cheerful for someone who'd been up in the sky for ten hours straight. I sat up straighter, brushing a crumb off my hoodie. My chest felt tight. Landing meant facing it—new air, new faces, new everything.
The wheels hit the runway hard, a jolt that rattled my teeth. My stomach flipped, not from turbulence, but from nerves. I hugged my backpack to my chest as the plane slowed. Passengers around me stood immediately, reaching for bags, muttering in English I half understood. I stayed in my seat a little longer, staring at the people shuffling forward. They looked so normal. Like they belonged.
I didn't. Not yet.
Finally, I stood, dragging my carry-on behind me. My legs felt stiff, like they'd forgotten how to walk.
The airport was colder than I expected. Not the temperature—though the drafty glass tunnel from the plane made me shiver—but the atmosphere. In Japan, airports were noise and chatter, the smell of ramen stands and announcements echoing overhead. Here it was quieter, almost clinical. Wide, clean floors. Signs pointing toward customs.
I clutched my passport like it was a lifeline. Jenna Amelia La Rose. The name didn't sound like mine, not really. "Ji A" was who I was. That's what my friends used to call me, what everyone whispered. But here, Ji A was gone.
Customs was a blur of stern faces and short questions. The officer stamped my papers without looking up, as if I was just another shadow passing through. Maybe that was good. Maybe being invisible was safer.
My suitcase thudded onto the carousel, bright pink and sticker-covered, standing out against all the serious black luggage. I grabbed it quickly, cheeks burning, as if the suitcase screamed look at me.
Outside the sliding doors, the air hit me sharp and icy. My lungs filled with cold so different from Tokyo's humid summers. I pulled my hood up, dragging the suitcase along the sidewalk, waiting for my mother's cousin who promised to pick me up.
The wait felt endless. Cars came and went, families reunited with hugs, couples kissed like they hadn't seen each other in years. I stood alone, clutching my phone even though there were no new messages. For the first time, the reality sank in: this wasn't just a trip. This was my new life.
And standing there in the cold, I whispered to myself, barely loud enough to hear:
"Okay, Ji A. Time to start over."