Chapter Eight: Paper Cups and Paper Trails
(Zaria's POV)
If homesickness had a cure, maybe it would smell like vanilla and waffle cones.
My first summer job was at a small ice cream shop a few blocks away — "Sunny Scoops," with pastel walls, sticky counters, and a bell that jingled every time the door opened.
The manager, Mr. Howard, was a kind man in his fifties who wore Hawaiian shirts like it was always vacation. "You'll do great," he said on my first day, handing me an apron. "Just smile and don't panic when someone orders a triple scoop."
I nodded, though I already felt the panic rising.
Behind the counter, tubs of colors I'd never seen in ice cream lined up like paint — mint green, bubblegum pink, lavender swirl. The first customer asked for "two scoops of birthday cake, in a waffle cone, please," and I nearly handed her mango by accident.
By the third customer, my wrist hurt, my smile felt too big, and there was more ice cream on my hand than in the cup.
Still, when the little kid at the counter grinned and said, "Thank you, miss!" in a voice sticky with sugar, I felt something shift — a small spark of pride.
After work, I met Maya and Lia at our apartment. Maya had dust on her sleeves and smelled faintly of old paper.
"The library's so quiet," she said dreamily. "I love it. People actually whisper. It's like the air listens."
I laughed. "Meanwhile, I spent my day in a symphony of screaming toddlers and melting ice cream."
Lia appeared from her room in a crisp blouse, typing something on her phone. "Try answering phones all day for a dentist who calls everyone 'buddy.'"
We exchanged tired smiles — three different worlds, one shared exhaustion.
Over the next weeks, summer settled into rhythm.
I learned to scoop faster, to joke with customers, to guess who'd ask for extra sprinkles. Sometimes teenagers my age came in wearing bright summer dresses or holding hands, and I'd wonder if I'd ever look that carefree again.
Maya started bringing home stories — a child who whispered to the fish in the library aquarium, an old woman who read love poems aloud to herself. She said the library felt like a heartbeat, steady and soft.
Lia began speaking like she was running a company. "Today I scheduled three appointments and accidentally sent a memo to the wrong Dr. Smith. It's fine. I fixed it. I think."
We laughed, falling into our evening ritual — tea, leftovers, and stories about our tiny jobs that somehow felt big.
One Friday, I stayed after closing to wipe down the tables. The city outside glowed golden, and a radio played softly in the background. Mr. Howard locked the door and smiled.
"You girls from Bangladesh, right? Must've been a big move."
"Yeah," I said, hesitating. "Still getting used to everything."
He nodded thoughtfully. "You know, when I was your age, I moved here from Puerto Rico. It gets easier. You just start finding pieces of yourself in new places."
That night, I walked home under a sky still humming with daylight. My shoes stuck a little to the pavement, and the air smelled faintly of sugar and sunburn.
When I got back, Maya was sketching something — the outline of bookshelves melting into waves. Lia was half-asleep on the couch, one arm over her face.
"Hey," Maya murmured. "How was work?"
I smiled, setting down my bag. "Sweet."
She laughed softly. "Of course."
We sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when you're too tired to talk but too happy to sleep. Outside, a siren wailed faintly. Inside, our little apartment felt safe — like a lighthouse against the noise.
Before bed, I took out a small journal I'd started keeping. On the first page, I wrote:
Summer tastes like strawberry and homesickness.
Maybe that was what growing up was — learning to live between the two.
The next morning, I woke to sunlight spilling through the curtains, Lia humming as she ironed her office shirt, and Maya sleepily scrolling through her library schedule.
We were still thousands of miles from home, but somehow, this — the smell of toast, the sound of laughter, the promise of a new day — felt like another kind of belonging.
Not perfect.
Not easy.
But ours.
And maybe that was enough.