Moving. Again. I guess by now I should be used to it. We've been moving my entire life. Only this time is different. This time, I'm on my own. As soon as we arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, my father so graciously informed me that I wasn't going to be living with them. That my step-mother had had enough of me and that he'd fulfilled his obligations to my birth mother. He gave me a key and a bank card that accessed an account he'd set up for me. He gave me the address to my new home, and enough cash to take a cab there. He told me that the moving van containing my things would be there in an hour, and then he dropped me off at the side of the road with my backpack and a small suitcase, never looking back.

I suppose I should tell you who I am. I suppose you'd like to know my story. My name is Sang Sorenson, I'm 18 years old, and as of five minutes ago, I'm completely and utterly alone.

I guess that's not much of a difference to what I'm used to. I'm used to being alone, even with my family I was completely alone, so this should be no different. Everything was normal until I turned 8. Before then, everything was perfect. My parents loved me, my sister was my best friend. Sure we weren't allowed out of the house much, but we were fine with that. We had each other.

After I turned 8, everything changed.

The woman I thought was my mother got sick. She turned cruel. Unforgiving. Punishing me for minor or imagined offenses. I dealt with it. I tried to be better, tried being invisible. Nothing worked. No matter what I did, I was always wrong. I always wondered if there was anything I could've done to be a better daughter. There wasn't.

I didn't blame her for my punishments. They were my fault. She was my mother and she was just trying to protect me. Right? Wrong.

Now I know the truth. Now I know why she could never love me the way she loved my sister. I was 16 when I found out that she wasn't my mother. My father had an affair with someone much younger. My step-mother said he raped her. She was 16. Ironic, right? Anyway, after that it got really bad. Her punishments got worse, I guess because of how much I started to look like her.

I had to kneel in rice on a hardwood floor for hours, or sit on a still until my father came home from work. I was lucky if he came home the same night. I had to drink some messed up concoction of lemon juice and vinegar a few times; my voice hasn't been the same since.

Once, she tied me to a stool in the shower with the water running. It was scalding when she put me in there, and by the time I was let out hours later, it was freezing cold. I would have died in there if my father hadn't come home complaining about the shower being on for so long. To this day, I still can't take showers.

I never blamed her, no matter how bad it got. It was never her fault, she was sick.

"Hey, miss? We're here," the cab driver tells me.

"Oh, thank you," I whisper.

I hand her the money and get out to brag my suitcase from the trunk. When she drives off, I look up at the building that will be my new home for who knows how long. It's a tall building, the Sergeant Jasper. It looks nice.

I hike my bag higher on my back and start to wheel my suitcase to the entrance. A tall guy sweeps past me and holds the door open. I look behind me to make sure I'm not in anyone's way. Seeing no one, I get confused. I stop walking, wondering why he would be holding the door open for me. My step-mother drilled into my head from a young age that men are evil and only want one thing. That was one of the ways she kept us in the house. She told us stories of young girls getting kidnapped and raped by unsuspecting males.

I've always held out hope that she was lying due to her illness. But I still have to wonder why. I haven't done anything for him, and he doesn't know me. What could he possibly gain from this?"

"Miss? Are you coming in?"

I look up into a pair of brilliant blue eyes. I'm stunned into silence, although I wasn't talking to being with. It's hard to believe that those eyes could belong to someone bad.

"Miss?"

Oh! "Oh, sorry."

I tear my gaze away from his beautiful eyes to stare at the ground. Continuing my walk into the building, I keep my head down and move past him. He closes the door behind me and accompanies me on my walk to the elevator.

"What floor?" he asks once we step inside.

"Oh, um 7."

He laughs and presses the button. "Are you new here? I've never seen you before."

"Uh, yeah. I'm moving in today."

"Is that all you have?" he asks, pointing at the suitcase.

My brows furrow as I take a quick look up at him. Why does he care?

"No," I mumble. "The moving truck should be here soon."

"Oh, okay."

The elevator comes to a stop of 7 and we both step out and walk right.

"Is your boyfriend driving the truck?" he asks, catching me off guard.

"No. Uh, I don't... I don't uh, have a boyfriend."

"Oh! You're by yourself?"

His lips have slanted into a frown. Why is he frowning? Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to make him upset.

"Well, yes, but it's fine." I give him a small smile, hoping it'll erase whatever I did before. "I'm used to doing things alone."

And that only makes him frown harder. On no. Why did I have to say that? And why is he even still talking to me? I absently notice that we've stopped in the middle of the hallway, a door on each side of us. Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I take a look at the number placed on the loop, mainly to look away from his frown and piercing blue eyes. Looking to the door behind me, I notice the numbers match up. Talk about dumb luck.

"This is me," I say, pointing behind me.

"Would it be alright if I helped you out when the truck gets here? I don't want to overstep or anything, but I don't think you should be moving furniture by yourself."

"Oh, thank you, but no. I couldn't— I wouldn't want to be a bother."

"It wouldn't be," he says. "You'd actually be doing me a favor. You wouldn't want me to lose my southern gentleman status, would you?"

"Oh no!" My voice scratches once it goes too high but I ignore it, shaking my head animatedly.

"Good." A blinding smile replaces his frown. "Since we'll be living right across the hall from each other, you can just knock on my door when they get here."

"Oh, um. Okay."

I'm turning around to put my key in the door when I hear his voice again.

"Wait. What's your name."

I look back with wide eyes and mentally berate myself. How could I forget my manners? I may not interact with many people, but that's no reason to forget them.

"Sang," I answer after a moment. "Sang Sorenson."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Sang. My name is Corey. Corey Henshaw. Welcome to the building."