I wasn't born into wealth or ease, but into a life filled with people who wore resilience like second skin. Our village was small enough that everyone knew not just your name but the cadence of your dreams, whispered between chores and shouted in the marketplace. We didn't have much, but what we had, we shared. A loaf of bread, a borrowed coat, an afternoon of shared laborit all bound us together. Yet, even in that close-knit community, I felt the tug of something more. Dreams of distant places, city lights, and wide, open horizons were often the only company I had while herding cattle or walking miles for water.
"Don't fly so high you forget where you came from," my mother would say as she kneaded dough with hands that told the story of hard work and sacrifice. But the problem with dreams is that they grow roots, and mine took hold fast. Every night, as the village went silent, I'd sneak outside and stare at the sky. I wondered about the places those twinkling lights had seen. Who else stared at them, their lives as foreign and unreachable to me as the stars themselves?
When the opportunity came to leave, it didn't arrive neatly, tied with a ribbon. It was messy and uncertain, filled with more questions than answers. A letter, a conversation, a whispered goodbye. My heart felt split between two worldsthe one I'd always known and the one I was desperate to discover. "Go where the path is hard," a teacher had once told me, "because the easy ones never lead anywhere worth going." I clung to those words as I packed my bag with trembling hands, knowing I would carry my home with me even as I left it behind.
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