Longingly staring out the backseat window, the cloudy skies paint the late afternoon sky with clustered bubbles of grey. Sunlight peeked through the gaps between the buildings, breaking the curtain of shadows in the slim Parisian streets.

Clouds overcast the sun, glumly taking hold of the cold city as the foreboding September rain trickles down the streets unabated.

As the car reaches the apartment’s approach, rainfall pools in the complex's driveway.

“Who doesn’t love a little bit of rain while moving, eh?” the father sarcastically complains, hair dyed completely grey to embrace his many years with a lite, bear-like build.

“We’ll just have to be quick,” the mother, her frame shelled in draping cloths, replies, her livid facial expression, bleached hair wetting and clinging to her forehead, expressions contradicting her suggestive tone.

“We should’ve gotten movers.” Father, getting no response in return, oblivious to her fury.

The son emerged from the backseat, dressed casually smart, his typical style when formality is uncertain. The blanketed starlight dulled his burgundy hair.

As they unloaded the car, the boy couldn’t help but gawk at his new residence. This is where I’ll be living now. He realises to himself.

The balconies above were lined with various kinds of flowers and shrubberies: pink azalea, calla lilies, impatiens, and morning glory, just a few he could recognise. The breeze lightly pelted the family, carrying the petrichor scent from the autumn rain drenching the sidewalk's greenery. Despite their annoyance, the cool wash was revitalising for them after hours of being strapped down in that car for so long.

The boy, Aris, stands there, taking it all in: the onlookers, the pale walls lining the streets, even the sounds that stay consistent despite the passage of time, the overpowering scent of the wet earth combined with the light, sweet, and floral scent of the flowers that engulfed the streets—the culmination of elements that’ll play a role in his new chapter of life.

“What are you just standing there for? Get the boxes!” his father commands.

Aris lets out a sigh.

Despite their annoyance, the boxes were swiftly transferred from the trunk to the apartment lobby, proving it was not much of a predicament for the family. The apartment lobby is well-lit, with oblong-shaped chandeliers hanging from above, giving off a warm glow. The lobby's spacious but spartan arrangement invited a momentary wow that faded the more one lingered. Opposite a small reception desk with mailboxes lined behind it, couches surround a coffee table with promotional magazines and pamphlets lying there untouched.

To initiate conversation, his father says aloud what he remembers of the rental description: “Diverse dining options located nearby, laundromat available in the basement, plus a sauna.” His attempt is fruitless.

A mademoiselle, probably in her mid-20s, walks by holding a leash, obviously taking her dog out, and exits the lobby. Aris spaces out again, pondering if this start would be an opportunity to see a difference in his sorry excuse of a love life.

“So, pets are allowed, eh?” his father wonders aloud.

“Pets are messy, and you’re not responsible enough,” the mother admonishes Aris.

“Not like I was planning on getting one anyway,” Aris sighs. How hard can it be to take care of an animal? She never believed in me doing anything, even for myself, anyway. That was until recent..., Aris monologues to himself, thankful to their act of ‘kindness’.

After filling the elevator with the boxes, they head to the 4th floor, where the studio apartment 404 is. This industrial-style lodging, with its exposed brick interior and wooden flooring, subverts the uniformity of the pale modernist Parisian façade lining the streets.

While unpacking, Aris drifted towards his French balcony. Staring up at the grey and white dome with streaks of blue dappled with sweet pink and lilac swirls that struggle to come through, slowly getting consumed by the polluted, coppery, pleasantly intoxicating clouds signifying the autumn season. With gorging voluminous clouds hanging from the sky, all he could think of at this moment was all he had lost in life.

Would I ever feel the same feelings I’ve felt before, or will I forget them? Will I meet new people and make friends like the ones left behind? Questions circulate in Aris’s conscious.

“Come on, Aris. Help us unpack!” the mother exclaims, handing him a cardboard box full of his belongings.

He takes a deep breath, finally accepting and acknowledging that this was happening in its finality.

Having unpacked and set up most of his quintessential belongings. They rest in the open-plan lounge-kitchen.

“Well, I guess this is it.” His father exhales, almost sighing.

“Are you sure you don’t need us to stay with you for a few days?” the mother asks, concern laced into her voice.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be fine.” Aris answers back, hoping they’ll just leave now.

“Alright. We already spoke about this, but your mother and I are still a bit worried. You’ll learn to put yourself out there eventually. Just don’t be lazy,” the father adds to the conversation.

“And you need to be more social—" Aris interrupts her indirect belittlement of him.

“Look, I’m working on it. Just let me be for now.” He provides a strenuous attitude.

“Don’t be like that. We’re just trying to help,” his father responds.

No longer passive to his never-ending criticisms of his character, perhaps engendered by the long journey? Or that they now stand in his dominion? His true intentions elude him.

“Help? Help with what?! Huh?” Aris shouted at them, instantly regretting it while feeling relief in his chest. As if all the pent-up energy had been released, liberated from him.

A miasma engulfs the apartment, one devoid of any family.

It’s not like this apartment was meant for a family, he justifies to himself. I will barely ever see them from today onwards. Does my relationship with them even matter? Has it mattered? His brow furrowed. Despite being sick of how they constantly patronise me, I still don’t think it’s best to leave my relationship with them now.

The mother begins to sob before Aris can express his regret. Crocodile tears, Aris concludes, recollecting the instances she has wept those hollow tears, deceiving her brother and spouse time immemorial, but never exposing her chicanery.

His father stands beside her, glaring at his son. Raging, tempestuous waters assure his resentment towards his only son. Aris stands across from them, unable to think or even say anything. All that is before him is his father's pure, bitter outrage, and all that can be heard are her sobs.

Stunned, the boy watches his parents grab their belongings and reach for the door. Wait, are they leaving? Aris asks himself. Has hell frozen over? Where’s the “apologise to your mother now!” and “who do you think you are!” Uncertainty fills his thoughts. Do I speak to them? Do I apologise? Or should I continue putting my things away? I don’t know how to react. Is this what they meant?

Once unparalysed from his indecision, they were already gone.

At that realisation, he ran out of the apartments, dashing down the staircase to the ground floor, pelting from the lobby out the main door. The vehicle that he’d arrived in had vanished before his eyes.