Chapter 1
What is it that I truly want?
That's the simple question my mother asked me.
She had long black hair and red eyes, her smile kind yet tinged with disappointment.
Why was she asking me this? Well, the day before was just another "normal" day.
I went to school, saw my friend Jack, attended our classes, and faced the usual bullying.
It seemed like any other day, right? Yes, except this time, because I didn't have any money, the bullies were harsher than usual.
Following my friend's advice, I decided to stand up for myself.
Well, that didn't go as planned. They hit me so hard that I ended up with a black eye.
I'm a 15-year-old boy with chocolate-brown skin, black hair, and red eyes.
My appearance mostly resembles my father's, who passed away when I was just three years old.
I've only ever seen his photos.
Do I hate not having him around? Sometimes, yes.
I hate the world for taking him away from me.
But I also understand that everyone passes away someday—it's just that some leave earlier than expected.
When my mother, Stella saw my black eye, she didn't ask what happened. Instead, she asked a simple question:
"What do you want?"
I answered, "To become a doctor."
Stella shook her head and said, "Elijah, is that what you really want? Or is it just something you think will make me proud?"
I went silent for a moment, my eyes drifting to the corner of our small room where unpaid bills were stacked.
This was the first time in a long while that we were having dinner together.
My mom is always busy with work, day in and day out.
What I wanted—what I really wanted—was to spend more time with her.
Because I feel alone.
But then I reminded myself why she works so much.
She's constantly stressed, juggling endless responsibilities. I also worry about her safety.
This world is mostly run by gangsters, and I want to protect her.
I don't want what happened to Dad to happen to her too.
My father was killed during a robbery at the factory where he worked.
Now, every night my mom comes home late, and I live in fear that something similar might happen to her.
I already live with a single parent; I can't imagine living with none.
So, what do I truly want?
I took a deep breath and said, "I want to make your worries disappear, Mom. I want you to be safe, to have your dream house. That's all I want."
Stella smiled, stroking my head before lightly hitting it. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm asking what you want—something that doesn't involve anyone else."
I scratched my head where it stung a little. Stella added,
"Alright, sweetheart. Think about that question, and don't worry about me, okay? I'll be fine. Your dad didn't marry a weak woman. I'm like Supergirl, you know!" She laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
I chuckled a little and looked at her, though my mind was elsewhere. 'I really meant it, Mom.'
Sighing, I finished eating, kissed her, and went to my room. I couldn't sleep, so I opened the door to check on her.
She was busy writing papers for work and going through the stack of bills.
The next day was Friday—the last day of school for the week.
While I was asleep, Mom must have put ice on my eye, which I still can't figure out how she managed.
Even so, it was a relief; the swelling had gone down, though the bruise was still visible. She told me it would fade in a few days.
On my way to school, I met Kai.
He's always cheerful and concerned about me.
Kai has brown hair, blue eyes, and skin as white as milk.
"You should come over later. I've got this new game I'm dying to try!" he said.
"Yeah, yeah. Okay," I replied.
We reached school and went to our classes.
In my class, I was the guy who sat all the way in the back, alone.
There were others, too—those who liked to chat during lessons, trying to seem cool.
I ignored them, my attention fixed on someone else.
A girl in our class.
She was super cute, and my heart raced every time I looked at her.
Have I ever spoken to her?
Well, saying "morning" counts as talking, right?
No, it doesn't.
Who the heck are you?
I'm you. The better version of you.
Better version of me?
Yes.
I'm the version of you who talks to her, who stands up to bullies, who doesn't let his mother suffer while hanging out with friends.
That's me.
I was quiet for a while before asking, 'Are you saying I'm the worst version?'
'Not really,' the other me replied.
Before I could continue this internal argument and drive myself crazy, the teacher walked in.
"Good morning, students," she said.
"Good morning, Miss Pane," we replied.