Leaving Stockholm
I reach to pull down the last picture from the wall while balancing on the unreliable stool, aiming to add it to my portfolio. Just as my foot hovers over the floor, the stool wobbles, and the damn picture slips right into the bucket of scrub water.
Shit.
I drop to my knees and shove my hand into the murky water, fishing out the picture from last year’s boat trip with my former best friend. It’s soaked and fragile, and it tears when I try to shake off the water.
At the exact moment, my phone buzzes on the empty windowsill behind me. I sigh in annoyance. Not now. I lack time for socializing. Two more moving boxes need to be packed, and the floor needs to be vacuumed and scrubbed, which Dad sucks at, so it’s on me.
Without a second thought, I crumple the picture into a ball and toss it into the empty trash can. It wasn’t even a picture I’d bothered to hang back up again. Not because it’s lousy, but because of the person in the picture. I’ve just been too lazy to take it down.
The phone keeps buzzing as I straighten up, wiping my hand on my favorite blue skinny jeans. They’ll probably smell like sewage until I can wash them. Well, whatever.
I glance at the window, a bit confused. Since when did I become so popular? It’s not like everyone’s sending goodbye messages, right? I hardly have any friends left—if I have any at all.
Even though it’s tempting to check, I push that thought aside and walk over to the unmade bed where my Sony Alpha 7 Mark 2 camera is. To be on the safe side, I check it to make sure it’s still intact. And to my relief, it is. Dad bought the camera for my sixteenth birthday last year, and I’ve practically lived with it all year. Hopefully, I can keep using it; it would be a shame to let it gather dust on a shelf.
I sink onto the bed, staring at the half-packed room I’ve lived in since I was four. I would’ve stayed here until graduation if it weren’t for the job Dad applied for. He will coach Sandviken IK this fall. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s sports. I just don’t get the appeal. Hockey, football, whatever—it all bores me to tears.
Dad says hockey's interesting because it's full of action, unlike football, where only penalty kicks are exciting. All these tackles, send-offs, brawls, and the crowd's always hyped in hockey. But none of that makes me care more than I already don't.
There is a knock on my door, loud and sharp. The door opens before I can jump out of bed to answer it. “How’s it going? Do you need any help?” Dad asks, poking his head into the room.
There’s no denying it—my dad’s a total knockout. He’s got a body like Charlie Hunnam’s, all lean muscle. His eyes are smoldering and intense, like Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s, the kind that makes women forget how to complete a sentence. His smile is like Kevin Costner’s, warm and disarming, the kind that could charm the socks off a nun. It’s no mystery why women flock to him. That hunk package? Yeah, no one’s saying no to that, and I hate it.
I tie my hair up in a bun, shrugging. “At least it’s going. I have two boxes left, then it’s just the fun clean-up.”
“Alright, I’ll grab and load the packed boxes into the truck.”
I shoot Dad a thumbs-up, pairing it with a fake, overworked grin. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything before disappearing from the doorway.
And then the phone buzzes again—for the millionth time.
I groan, rolling my eyes as I stalk toward the window. Fine, I’ll check—maybe it really is urgent.
But when I glance at the screen, my stomach twists. An entire list of messages stares back at me, all from numbers I don’t recognize.
I swipe to scroll through them, each word hitting harder than the last. My throat tightens, and the pit of my stomach feels like it’s sinking straight to the floor.
Unknown number: You’re lucky to leave, aren’t you?
Unknown number: You ruined everything for her fucking cunt!
Messenger: Your dad is a psycho!
Messenger: You're so fucking cheesy! Do the world a favor and kill yourself!
Unknown number: No one will miss you.
My breath catches, and for a moment, the room spins.
I sink to the floor so as not to fall out of balance and bite my thumbnail as I delete the incoming messages.
They are everywhere. Instagram DMs, Facebook, messages, and even Threads. It’s not like I don’t know how things have been falling apart, but seeing it spread on social media makes it harder to handle.
My thumb hovers over “delete account,” but even if I delete my account, the messages on Threads will still be out there—for everyone to read. It’s pointless.
With a heavy sigh, I shove the phone into my back pocket, out of sight and in silent mode. They’re all just a bunch of losers.
Dad’s heavy footsteps echo through the nearly empty apartment. I shake off the tension clawing at my chest and turn to the half-packed mess around me. The clock’s ticking, and we’re racing against time and weather. If we don’t get these boxes loaded soon, we’ll be lugging them into the new place in pitch-black darkness.
To my disappointment, the morning sun’s vanished, replaced by a sheet of dull gray. We expect rain today. It’s probably snowing up north already. I’m not jealous, though. I hate the snow. Or—no, dislike. Hate’s too dramatic. But I hate the icy roads, the cold that seeps into your bones, and the sleet that smacks you in the face like nature’s version of an insult. Snow might look pretty in pictures but in real life? It’s just a wet, slippery nuisance that I can live without.
I prop my feet up on the dashboard, eyes glued to the raindrops streaking down the car window like they’re in a race. At least we made it on time. Now, all I’ve got to do is endure this two-hour ride to Sandviken. Of course, because my luck’s been absolute trash today, my earbuds are dead, leaving me at the mercy of Dad’s NHL playlist. Not all the songs are terrible, but when Dad sings along? Total ear damage. It’s like a bad karaoke night where everyone sings an octave higher that won’t end. I’m happy as long as he doesn’t head-banging behind the wheel.
“Nice with a fresh start, or what do you say, kiddo?” Dad asks, tossing his tracksuit jacket into the back seat.
I side-eye him hard. Kiddo. Really? I’ll be eighteen next year—a full-blown adult. Does he seriously think that nickname still fits?
“Fantastic,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “I’m sure this will be a groundbreaking, life-changing experience.”
Dad snorts so hard his nostrils do this weird flutter thing. “You don’t have to sound so overjoyed. Didn’t you say you wanted to get closer to nature?”
“Closer to nature, yeah.” I drag out the words like I’m explaining to a toddler. “Not settling in the woods. Do they even have a Starbucks over there?”
“Absolutely,” Dad replies with a straight face. “They’ve got some cheap copies in the grocery stores.”
“Gr-e-at.”
I roll my eyes so hard they practically do a 360. This keeps getting better and better.
Dad turns up the stereo, filling the car with one of his NHL pep songs. I turn toward the window, pressing my head against the seat. He keeps talking about Sandviken like it will be a fresh start for us, but let’s be honest—he’s just as worried as I am. We both know it doesn’t matter how far or where we move; it will follow us.
You can run, but you can’t hide. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
I dig my phone out of my pocket—thirty new notifications on Threads, seven Instagram DMs, and five texts. My stomach twists. This will never end. Before I let myself think too hard, I swipe to delete them, then delete all my accounts except for my private photography Instagram account, and shove the phone back into my pocket.
Dad sneaks a glance my way. He’s probably expecting me to break the silence. I won’t tell him about the messages. It's better that way. There’s nothing he can do that he hasn’t already done.
We turn onto the highway. Stockholm’s skyline shrinks in the side mirror until it’s just a faint blur. There’s no turning back now. Good riddance.
