🧵 Chapter 4: Chasing Freedom, Finding Ghosts
from The Thread Between Worlds: Book One of The Thread-saga
I never meant to fall for America.
But at seventeen, I didn’t know the difference between love and escape. I just knew I had to go — had to break the spell my childhood had wrapped around me, the ache of a home that never felt like mine.
I bought a plane ticket with shaky hands and borrowed courage. Landed in a city I’d only ever seen in movies. I thought I was flying toward romance, toward belonging. But mostly, I was just running from the girl I never asked to be.
What I found was stranger than fiction — a girl with red sneakers and a fast car, a grandmother with sailor’s mouth and menthol kisses, and a house that smelled like dog pee and something like safety. It wasn’t what I expected. But somehow, it’s where the story led.
This chapter is about the first leap. The red car. The wrong girl. The almost-love. And the early ache of realizing that even across an ocean, you can’t outrun the soul’s reflection.
I didn’t plan it.
I don’t think I ever really made plans back then — only leaps.
Blind, desperate leaps toward anything that looked like freedom.
GirlieGirlRacing lived in Massachusetts.
A state I had only seen in magazines and flickering television screens.
Boston.
A real city.
Crowded streets, endless lights, strangers packed together —
that’s what I was hungry for.
Not forests.
Not sunshine.
I wanted noise.
I wanted size.
I wanted to drown in a place so big no one would ever notice me again.
A life far away from the streets I was born to disappear inside.
When I turned seventeen, I gathered what little courage and money I had.
And I bought a plane ticket to the other side of the world.
I thought I was running toward love.
Toward a new life.
I didn’t realize yet:
You can’t outrun the pieces of yourself you’ve buried alive.
I still remember buying that first paper plane ticket to Logan Airport in 2002,
making my very first solo trip across the world to meet her.
Not knowing who would really be waiting for me after clearing Immigration,
I was filled with nervous anticipation.
Things had seemingly been falling into place since starting college.
I was interested — sort of — in my studies and had started meeting peers who were more interesting than expected.
During my second-to-last year, an amazing opportunity presented itself:
a year-long internship on Fuerteventura, in the Spanish Canary Islands.
Looking back, that was one of the very first real crossroads in my life —
a moment that would determine exactly where I would end up.
Almost nauseous with nerves, I handed my passport over to the stern immigration officer at Logan Airport —
an overweight, middle-aged white lady who glanced at me,
then back at my passport photo.
“You here for business or leisure?”
“Leisure!” I said with a sweet smile, explaining it was my very first time in the USA.
She didn’t seem at all interested.
“You got somewhere to stay?”
“Yes, I’m staying with a friend,” I replied.
She sighed — annoyed — and stamped my passport.
“All right, enjoy your stay.
Welcome to the United States,” she said, waving me through.
As I walked toward baggage claim,
a rush of pure adrenaline and excitement coursed through me.
I did it. I was finally here.
It didn’t even really matter who would be on the other side of those sliding doors.
I had already realized a dream I’d carried for as long as I could remember:
leaving my home country behind
and stepping into a place where true freedom and wide-open spaces seemed possible.
Instinctively, I knew I would stay for however long I could.
America was going to show me all sorts of crazy things.
As I walked through the doors — dying to get past the people lumbering slowly in front of me —
I tried picturing the girl I was about to meet.
Would I be attracted to her?
Throughout our chats on AOL, we had talked extensively.
She had very clearly tried to sweep me off my feet with her rather masculine energy.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
In all my previous interactions with girls,
I had been the one doing the sweeping, the wooing.
This felt strange and uncomfortable.
But now I was turning 18, and the desperate need to escape my family’s toxicity made me stubborn.
I ignored what my gut was whispering.
She had sent me just one or two pictures.
She had a certain cuteness about her — kind eyes —
but she was also the biggest girl I had ever seen at that time.
Still, she had been incredibly caring.
She made me feel safe during those long hours chatting late into the night.
So I decided to give it a go.
“Yas! Over here!!” I heard someone shout enthusiastically from the right side of me.
I looked up — and in what seemed like an eternity (but must have been just a split-second) —
I took her in.
She towered over the crowd in my view — bright red sneakers catching my eye first,
then worn-out boot-cut jeans,
and an American Eagle white top stretched snug across her frame.
Her chubby face glowed with bright red cheeks.
Thin light brown hair was pulled back into a black scrunchie.
She was even bigger than I had anticipated.
Her belly clearly protruded beneath her top.
And in that instant, I realized with a sick twist in my gut —
I had no attraction to her whatsoever.
I felt a deep conflict rise inside me.
What had I gotten myself into? I thought.
Ann, however, was head over heels for me from the moment she laid eyes on me —
I could tell.
At that time, I was 170 pounds stretched over a five-foot-nine frame —
tall enough to stand out,
soft enough to want to disappear.
My body carried curves I never felt at home inside —
a bosom too large,
a butt that strangers commented on.
My hair was a tangle of long, dark curls that no brush could tame.
And my almost-black eyes — wide, searching —
held a light I didn’t know how to protect.
People called me beautiful.
I wore their words like an ill-fitting coat,
never sure whether to shrug it off or hide inside it.
Ann couldn’t take her eyes off me.
And to her credit,
she was very gentlemanly in her demeanor.
She took me home first so I could freshen up and change.
Her pride and joy was immediately clear:
her candy-red Honda Accord V6 coupe.
It was tricked out with one of the best sound systems — luxurious and fast.
On the side windows, decals proudly proclaimed her online identity:
GirlieGirlRacing.
To be truthful,
I loved the car too.
Especially the part about being driven around like a queen.
She introduced me to her hilariously grumpy and crass grandmother —
who smoked like a chimney and cursed like a sailor.
As I walked from the hallway into the kitchen,
I took a moment to breathe it all in —
the smell of freshly laundered clothes mixed with sharp menthol smoke.
Turning the corner, two chubby little dogs came flying at me.
A beige-colored chihuahua sprinted across the kitchen counter
and launched itself straight into my arms.
The black-and-white one, resembling more of a Jack Russell, wasn’t quite as keen —
barking loudly at me from the floor.
I felt instantly at home.
There was a real atmosphere of love for family here.
Ann was quickly standing tall and proud next to her grandmother,
beaming with a big toothy smile from ear to ear.
“Grams, I want you to meet Yasmin!!” she said excitedly.
A stern look fixed itself on the older woman’s face —
stubborn, intense blue eyes locking onto mine.
She didn’t smile at first,
instead lighting a cigarette while never breaking eye contact.
It terrified me.
“Nice to meet you, dear,” she said unexpectedly, after a few seconds of heavy silence.
The corners of her mouth slowly curled up into a mischievous smile,
and her eyes twinkled with life.
She was adorable — small but feisty —
her gray hair perfectly permed
and her yellowing dentures peeking out from beneath her grin,
a testimony to decades of chain-smoking.
Her arms showed the state of her physical health:
large portions of her skin were covered in red scabs,
and she was clearly in discomfort.
I stepped closer and gave her a small hug,
smiling shyly.
“Nice to meet you too. I’m Yasmin,” I said.
“Come over here! I want you to meet my mom!” Ann said,
tugging at my arm as we slid past Grams into the dark lounge.
At the back of the room stood a bulky old television set,
flanked by two floor lamps resting on a beige-colored rug.
The sound of a lazy boy chair creaked loudly
as a large figure struggled to kick in the footrest and rise to her feet.
It wasn’t a big room, but it felt cozy — lived-in.
The faint smell of dog pee lingered in the air.
In the corner of the three-seater sofa,
another dog cowered —
a little silver mini greyhound with very bad teeth.
I turned toward the woman rising carefully from her chair.
There was a heaviness to her step,
but none to her spirit.
It moved ahead of her —
a quiet, luminous kindness that seemed to gather the very air around her into something softer.
Her face was full of sweetness,
her cheeks warm with life,
and her eyes held a depth of compassion that needed no explanation.
She radiated the kind of love you didn’t have to earn —
the kind you could simply step into, like sunlight through an open door.
And as she opened her arms to me,
I felt it settle around my shoulders like a blessing.
📖 Next chapter:
Chapter 5: Thousand Watching Eyes
© 2025 Alex Blumberch. All rights reserved.
The Thread Between Worlds is part of The Thread Series, a multi-volume soul memoir exploring collapse, awakening, and timeline convergence.
🧶 Want to keep reading now?
You can read the full book today on Kindle Unlimited or order it directly here: [The Thread Between Worlds].
If this chapter moved something in you, please consider supporting the journey — whether through a pledge, a book purchase, or simply by sharing the thread with someone it might reach.
This isn’t just a story.
It’s a remembering.
And it’s only just begun.
I like how vividly you describe everything. You have a great talent for writing, that evokes emotions in the reader 💙