Out of all 10 true stories from my life, this is the only story that is still currently being written due to its nature.
The Story of Carrots is the story of a symbol that seems to pick back up in my life whenever the story seems to end and thus, there doesn’t seem to be an end.
At least not at the moment.
However, like all stories, whether they have endings or not, this one does have a beginning.
Chapter 1: 18 – Love
It all started when I was in my freshman (first) year of university, back in Washington, D.C., the capital of the United States.
Hold onto your seats as I whisk you back to 2016. Whoosh!
A bit of a backstory. I graduated in May of 2016 from a school in South Korea, and then later in August of 2016, I moved abroad to the U.S. to attend university. Bear in mind, I was born in the States, but having spent the past 10 years in Korea, America felt pretty new to me. The last time I had been here was when I was 8 years old.
One thing I was sure of, however, was that when my parents would inevitably send me to the States to further my studies, I would be making my getaway from them and burn the bridge between me and my family, reasons for which have been detailed in other articles.
As a reminder:
I didn’t get to choose which schools I was applying to after high school.
I didn’t get to choose which school I was going to, out of the ones I got accepted to.
I didn’t get to choose my own major to pursue.
They, my parents,made all of those life-changing decisions for me.
They chose the university my sister had already attended for two years (she’s two years older than me), and if I had to theorize, whether they admit it or not, they did so to extend their influence and will through her, to get to me. To control me. To have her keep a close eye and grip on me for them. I was, after all, the more rebellious sibling, and within me was a spirit that yearned for its freedom.
And freedom was what it got. But not before I met this one girl.
During my short stay at university, I developed a crush on a girl in one of my classes. Let’s call her: “M.”
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