Moving. Again.
I stared at the box of books in front of me, my hands gripping the edges so tightly my knuckles turned white. The books weren't the problem. It wasn't the packing, the unpacking, or even the school transfers that bothered me. It was the fact that every time I started to feel settled, my parents decided it was time to leave.
"Amelia, honey, don't forget your coat," Mom called from downstairs.
I didn't answer. My room was stripped bare, the walls empty except for the ghostly outlines of posters I'd taken down. The only thing left on the bed was my stuffed bear, Bruno, a worn-out relic from a childhood that felt a million years ago. I shoved him into my bag.
"Amelia!" my dad yelled this time, his tone sharper.
"I'm coming!" I snapped, grabbing my backpack.
Downstairs, the movers were hauling the last pieces of furniture into the truck. Mom was checking her list, her lips moving silently as she went over every item. Dad was pacing by the front door, his hand tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh.
"This one will be better," he said when he saw me. He always said that.