One Ticket Away

The neon hum of the convenience store sign flickered against the rain-streaked window as I stepped inside, shaking off the cold drizzle that clung to my umbrella. It was late—too late for anyone else to be stocking up—but the hurricane warnings had been all over the news, and I wasn’t about to risk getting stuck in my tiny dorm with nothing but instant noodles and bottled water. 

A year ago, I never imagined I’d be here—alone in a foreign country, speaking a language that felt foreign even when I had the right words, living in a city that seemed endless, its skyline stretching beyond what I could comprehend. 

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly as I browsed the nearly empty aisles. A bag of strawberry cookies, a few sushi rolls, and a large carton of papaya milk—essentials. As I reached for a convenience store sandwich, another student darted past me, grabbing the last one. He turned, flashed an apologetic smile, and said something too fast for me to understand. I hesitated, then nodded, pretending I got it. 

That was life here—half-understanding, half-guessing, but always moving forward. 

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I clutched my tote bag tightly as I weaved through the crowds of the twelve-story mall, the scent of fresh-out-of-the-oven egg waffles wafting through the air. My phone buzzed with a message from my classmates:

"Meet at the café on the ninth floor. Group study before exams!" 

The escalators seemed endless, each floor opening into a different world—high-fashion boutiques, quirky character goods, an entire level dedicated to books. By the time I reached the café, my friends were already there, their textbooks sprawled across the table, half-drunk milk teas and cold cup noodles forgotten in the humid air. 

“You look like you just ran a marathon,” one of them teased. 

I laughed, plopping into the seat beside them. “I fought my way through six floors of shoppers. That should count as a workout.” 

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The night before my performance, I found myself on the roof of my dorm’s building, the clock ticking past 2 AM. A few other students stood in clusters, whispering lines and flipping through their scripts. My bedtime should have been an hour ago, and my brain was starting to feel as dry as my half-empty cup of vending machine boba. 

“Hey.” 

I looked up to see one of my classmates sliding a steaming cup of jasmine tea across the table. “Trade you for some of those strawberry cookies you got at the store,” she said with a grin. I handed her the bag, smiling. “Deal.”

We weren’t close, not really. But in that moment, under the gentle glow of twinkling stars, surrounded by the quiet hum of late-night traffic, I felt a connection. We were all just trying to make it through. 

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The high-speed railway train glided effortlessly across the landscape, the city shrinking behind me as fields and mountains unfolded in its place. The seat beside me was empty, but I didn’t mind. 

I had taken this journey alone, yet I had never felt more surrounded—by the kindness of strangers, the rush of a city that never stopped moving, the quiet resilience of late-night study sessions and last-minute survival shopping. 

A ticket in my pocket, a world ahead of me. 

I was still learning, still figuring things out. But wasn’t that the adventure? 

And just like that, I was one ticket away from the next chapter of my life.

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But maybe, just maybe - I wasn’t just one ticket away from the next destination. Maybe I was already there.