The plane lands in Buenos Aires, and Ami feels her chest tighten. This isn't a vacation. It's not even a fresh start. It's just… different air. Same ache.
Three years have passed since her parents died in that crash, but grief doesn't wear a watch. Some days it's loud. Some days it's just a dull, familiar silence.
Sandra, her stepmom, tries her best. She meets Ami at the airport with warm hugs and a new pair of sneakers — the kind her dad would've picked out. She talks a lot, always trying to fill the silence. Ami mostly nods.
"Your college is beautiful," Sandra says as they pull up to the gates on her first day. "I think you'll really fit in."
Ami forces a smile. She doesn't know what fitting in even means anymore.
The campus buzzes with energy. Spanish flies like music through the air — fast, messy, emotional. Ami understands some, thanks to years of halfhearted Duolingo sessions and subtitles, but living it? That's another thing.
Everyone here seems vibrant — tanned skin, loud voices, shared inside jokes. Meanwhile, she's walking stiff, foreign, like a muted version of herself.
But then… there's the court.
The basketball court is tucked behind the school, painted and polished. Home. Her kind of language. She walks over, ties her braids back, grabs the nearest ball, and starts shooting.
Dribble. Step back. Release.
Swish.
For the first time in forever, she feels something — not sadness, not confusion, just movement. Control.
She's so locked in she doesn't notice the three girls watching from the benches. One tall and fierce-looking, the other with blue-dyed hair and paint on her jacket, and a third with cat-like eyes and a stillness that makes her stand out.
They whisper to each other as she shoots. Ami pauses, wipes sweat from her brow, and leaves the court, not even looking their way.
But they keep watching.
Like she's already a name on their lips.