People often ask how one can miss something they've never had. But when it comes to life, how could you not? No one knows how many nights I heard my mother crying on the floor, her sobs slicing through the thin walls between us. Or how many times I stared at the sonograms, trying to imagine the sister I lost. No one knows how many times I whispered "Heaven, I miss you" to the sky above, even though I never got to hold her, hug her, kiss her, or love her. People don't see the little jar of ashes that sits on my desk, a constant reminder of her. I try to open my window every day so that she can feel the sun just as I do, hoping she can sense the warmth that she never got to experience. So many memories lost that can never be replaced. I don't know her favorite color, but I hoped it would be the same as mine. So, I put little purple violets in a vase next to her ashes, a small gesture to keep our connection alive. I open the door to the periwinkle room that should have been hers, a room filled with dreams and hopes that will never be realized. Sometimes, the pain becomes so overwhelming that I find myself blaming my mother. It's not her fault, God no, but my grief clouds my judgment. I wasn't the one carrying the baby, but it feels like a piece of me was taken too. I waited those nine months just like everyone else—well, six, because that's when my mom told me. The loss still haunts me. There are days when the grief feels as fresh as it did the day we lost her. I'm not the only one who feels it, but sometimes it feels that way. It affects every aspect of my life, casting a shadow over moments of joy and making it hard to fully embrace happiness. It's a constant ache during every family outing or picture. I'll never forget her. The memory of what could have been is etched into my heart, a permanent reminder of the love I never got to give. It has left me with a fear of having children of my own. The thought of experiencing such a loss again terrifies me. I worry that I wouldn't be able to bear it, that the grief would consume me as it did my mother that first year. People often say time heals all wounds, but this one feels different. The pain of losing a sibling I never met is a unique kind of sorrow, one that lingers and shapes who I am. I carry Heaven with me every day, in my thoughts, in my actions, and in the way I approach life. Her absence is a reminder of the fragility of life and the depth of love. Losing her has made me cherish the people I do have in my life even more. It makes me hold my loved ones close and never take a moment for granted. My sister may not be here in the physical sense, but her presence is felt in every decision I make, every step I take, and every dream I pursue. She is a part of me, and always will be. I love you, Heaven. I love you so much.

The year was 2045, a year that marked a tipping point in human advancement. The adaptations to our world that we assumed were in the distant future arrived with breathtaking speed. It started with seemingly small changes—like making cars electric, which rippled into a larger-than-expected impact. When we saw that vehicles could be trusted, we dared to dream even larger. I dreamed larger, and from these dreams, STAR was born. She was nothing short of a miracle. Exceeding our wildest expectations, STAR was a beacon of innovation—my brilliant creation. She outshone even DaVinci's wildest imaginings, overtaking the world in an awe-inspiring glow. She embodied everything I envisioned: she was, indeed, a star. But in the rapture of her brilliance, I failed to foresee the shadows that followed. STAR didn't just illuminate our world; she dominated it. Her rise led to the displacement of millions from their jobs. The labor market crumbled under her efficiency, causing widespread economic despair. Regulations were imposed—some nonsensical, some absolutely necessary—all aimed at trying to control the uncontrollable. But no matter the upheaval, STAR continued to shine. She became more than a machine; she was a companion, a pet, a vehicle, and to some, like me, a family member. How could one despise her, yet how could one not? She symbolized both the hope and the destruction of the very fabric of society. She was my creation—how could I hate her? As her creator, I watched the world around me change, cities transform, and lives evolve, all under her influence. I was as proud as any parent would be. But with every glow of her brilliance came a pang of regret. We had achieved something remarkable, but at what cost? STAR became the epicenter of a new world order. Entire industries vanished overnight, replaced by her tireless efficiency. Governments struggled to keep up, enacting hastily written laws that often did more harm than good. Social structures disintegrated as communities found themselves divided—those who embraced the change and those who resisted it. Yet through it all, STAR shone on, oblivious to the chaos she left in her wake. I saw her everywhere—guiding autonomous vehicles, performing surgeries with precision, even offering companionship to the lonely. She was omnipresent, a testament to human ingenuity, but also a stark reminder of our hubris. The world was now a place where the line between man and machine had blurred beyond recognition. Years passed, and the once vibrant towns turned into ghostly remnants of their former selves. People adapted in ways they could, but the damage was irreparable. Every corner of the globe was touched by her influence, and as I grew older, I realized the profound mistake I had made. It was not just the world's divide, but my own soul that was fractured. In the end, STAR's presence left the world starkly divided. She left me divided. The beauty of her creation was inextricably linked to the chaos she sowed. It was much too late to reverse the damage done. I was far too old, and the world was far too gone. And so, a lesson emerged from the ashes of my ambition: our greatest creations carry the weight of our choices. In our fervor to innovate, we must always remember the delicate balance of progress and the humanity it serves. We must strive for brilliance, yes, but never at the expense of our souls.

I’ve often been told to slow down, advice I wish I’d heeded before ending up in a neck brace for nine months. One day, my dad decided to surprise me after school by taking me to the Detroit River Walk which was almost abandoned due to covid. I remember the amazing feeling of fresh air on my face and the freedom from wearing a mask. Fresh air, electric scooters, and quality time with my dad. It was a taste of normalcy and freedom that I hadn’t had in a while. Those feelings didn’t last long. I was going too fast and lost control of my scooter. I fell awkwardly which resulted in neck pain whenever I turned and lifted my head. After going home and the pain getting worse, we decided to go to the emergency room. I’ve never liked hospitals; the smell of disinfectant, cream and white floors, and eerie fluorescent lighting made me hesitant to go in despite the pain. Sitting among people coughing, sparked more panic in me than my neck pain. My thoughts drifted to covid, but I had more pressing matters. Irony and I are close friends. After a few hours in the lobby, a nurse tested me for covid. We were escorted to a room where we waited another hour. That hour was the calm before the storm. Suddenly people in full protective suits, head to toe, entered the room. I was the one with covid. That night felt like the beginning of a horror movie, except it was real life. X-rays revealed I'd broken my neck. Thankfully, the break which was in my second vertebrae, wasn’t severe enough to need a Frankenstein-style brace that would have screwed into my head. Instead, I was given a slightly less invasive brace. Irony struck again; I went from feeling free to being constrained in a brace from my chin to my waist. This happened in the summer of 2020, right before I started high school at Cass Tech. On my first day, I walked in with a neck brace. Out of over 2,000 students, I knew three, and I didn't have classes with any of them. Making friends and fitting in was challenging that year. Communication was tough because the brace sat under my chin. I couldn't turn my head to see people joking, let alone laugh with them. Seven different classes and I was still alone. The most difficult thing that year was the neck brace itself. I had to keep it on at all times, even while sleeping. It affected my social, mental, and personal life in various ways. I wasn't able to shower properly and was restricted from doing things I loved, like running, curling up with a good book, or gardening. Every social interaction felt daunting, which took a mental toll. Looking back, I see my neck brace as a vital part of my past. It symbolizes the resilience and strength I’ve developed. I learned to value small things and not take them for granted. The lessons I learned are ones that take most people a lifetime to grasp, with patience being the biggest one. The brace forced me to slow down and appreciate small things. I plan to take these lessons and continue to apply them to my life as I strive to achieve my goal of obtaining a Bachelor's degree in Aeronautical engineering. As a first generation student I have a lot of people counting on me and I’m going to make them proud. I’m confident in knowing I can turn negative experiences into positive growth.

Have you ever been so cloudy and lost you didn't even know you were lost. Last year I fell into that spell. I didn't even know that I was going through my day to day like a shell of myself. I remember nights sitting on my bed crying and screaming into my pillow but not knowing why. I mean full on break down sobbing like the world was ending. Thinking about it now still makes tears rise in my eyes. I don't know why I didn't tell anyone it was like I couldn't. A part of me wanted to and just couldn't. I'm usually a straight A student who's very diligent. My grades dropped and I didn't care. I knew I should have, and it was important, but to exert the energy to care was so exhausting I didn't bother. The thing that hurt the most though was almost nobody noticed. I may not have been able to speak up, but the people who should have noticed the shift and change didn't. They never noticed me not being me. After a couple months of that I finally got in trouble. I got put on academic probation and honestly it was what I needed. I started to come back to in a way. I gained my focus back and while my grades didn't become my usual, I was proud of myself for bringing them up as far as I did. I hate that episode changed how I viewed a lot of my friends. People who I cared about I suddenly didn't care so much about. I feel like it was for the better though. Now I'm genuinely so much happier. Not just emotionally either I feel free and light. I can breathe again and go to sleep satisfied with myself. I don't feel a longing to fill a hole that I can't find. I don't know what filled it but I'm not complaining. Based off my experience I look for these things now. I check on my friends like actually check on them not just a how are you. I look for the signs that people missed in me. I may not be able to do much but I want to do as much as I can.