Chapter Six: The First Day in America
(Zaria's pov)
The air smelled different the moment we stepped outside the airport.
It wasn't wrong, exactly — just clean, quiet, strange. Like the world had been scrubbed too hard.
No honking rickshaws.
No chatter.
No cha-wala calling out from the street corner.
Just the faint hum of cars and the sound of our suitcases rolling over smooth pavement.
For a second, I just stood there on the sidewalk, the wind tugging at my hoodie, watching people hurry past. Everyone looked busy. Distant. Like they already had places to be, lives to live.
And here we were — three girls with too many bags and too many feelings, trying to start over.
Lia led the way as we found our Uber. "Come on, you two. It's not that far from here," she said, though her voice was soft, careful — like she knew if she spoke too loudly, one of us might start crying again.
Maya slid into the backseat beside me, clutching her phone like it was her last link to home. I could see the unread messages — her mom, her dad, her little brother, all sending heart emojis and "call us when you land."
Outside the car window, the city stretched wide and endless. The buildings were neat, the trees perfect, the sky so open it made me dizzy.
I missed the chaos already.
Our new apartment was on the third floor of a quiet complex — white walls, big windows, no grills or balcony plants. Just… emptiness.
Lia unlocked the door with a shaky breath. "Welcome home," she whispered.
It echoed in the hallway, too big and too foreign to feel real.
The living room had pale wooden floors and an empty echo that made me want to run back to the noise of Dhaka. Our suitcases lined up by the wall like strangers.
For a while, none of us spoke. We just stood there, surrounded by silence. Then Maya's voice cracked softly.
"It doesn't smell like home."
That was it. The moment our tears broke again.
Lia hugged us both, her chin trembling. "Hey, hey… I know. It's okay. We'll make it smell like home."
We spent the next hour unpacking in slow motion.
Each of us had our own room — small, plain, but full of possibilities.
I pinned my fairy lights above the bed, taped up a photo of Ma and Baba, and placed my quran on the desk beside my notebooks. The air still felt cold, so I wrapped myself in the shawl Nanu had given me before we left — the one that still smelled faintly of attar and rose.
In the kitchen, Maya tried to make instant noodles but ended up laughing halfway through when the pot overflowed. "Okay, so maybe I'm not ready for independence yet."
Lia joined in, her laughter watery but real. "You'll learn. We all will."
For dinner, we had noodles and chips on paper plates, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
No curry, no rice, no stainless steel plates clinking — just quiet chewing and the low hum of the fridge.
Later that night, after the laughter faded, I sat on my bed, phone in hand. The time difference had flipped our world upside down — it was morning in Bangladesh.
I pressed call.
"Ma?"
Her voice came through, soft and crackling. "Amar meye? You reached safely?"
That was all it took. My eyes burned again. "Yeah… we're here. The apartment's nice. Big windows. Clean."
"Did you eat?" she asked immediately.
"Yeah. Instant noodles," I said with a weak laugh.
I could hear her sigh through the phone. "You sound tired, ma. Rest. And remember—no matter how far you are, you're never alone. Allah dekhe rakbe."
"I know," I whispered. "I love you."
When the call ended, the silence felt heavier than before.
I walked to the window. Outside, the city lights were still and unfamiliar — not like Dhaka's restless glow. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed; somewhere closer, Maya hummed quietly in her room.
I looked up at the sky — wide and endless — and thought of my balcony back home. The sound of azan at dawn. The smell of rain on concrete. The laughter echoing through narrow alleys.
Here, it was all gone.
But maybe, just maybe, this was where I'd learn who I could become.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the curtains, golden and soft. Lia had already made tea — or her version of it, which tasted like boiled water pretending to be cha.
Maya was setting up her room, taping photos of home on the walls.
And for the first time since we landed, something warm flickered inside me.
We weren't just lost girls in a strange place.
We were three pieces of home trying to rebuild it — one cup of tea, one laugh, one memory at a time.
I still missed the sound of Dhaka, but maybe distance wasn't just something to survive.
Maybe it was something to dare.