Chapter 1: The Arrival
The plane's wheels touched down with a sharp jolt, and for a split second, Adyan thought he might pass out. His heart raced as the cabin lights flickered on, signaling the end of the flight. He blinked and tried to swallow the dryness in his throat. The endless journey from Dhaka to New York City had finally come to a close. He felt like he had entered a new world—a world where he was both invisible and hyper-visible at the same time.
As he stood up, gathering his things, the weight of the moment settled on him. He had spent years preparing for this—mentally, emotionally, and financially—but nothing had prepared him for the sheer magnitude of it all. He'd read about New York, seen movies about it, heard stories from relatives who had lived here. But none of it felt real until now. The air outside the plane was thick, a cold, damp wind that made his skin prickle. Even the smell was different—heavy with gasoline, street food, and the faint scent of damp concrete.
He maneuvered through the bustling JFK airport, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors as he joined the throng of travelers. There was no time for the usual moments of hesitation when arriving in a new place; here, everyone was moving too fast. The terminal was a frenzy of voices in multiple languages, people rushing from gate to gate, pulling suitcases that rattled on the floor. Adyan's suitcase, worn and scuffed from years of travel, was a tiny speck in the ocean of luggage that flooded the conveyor belt.
The realization hit him all at once: New York was everything he had imagined—and more. The buildings were taller than he'd thought, blocking out the sky in ways that made him feel small and insignificant. The taxis outside honked relentlessly, their yellow exteriors gleaming under the harsh streetlights. He climbed into a yellow cab, watching the world outside become a blur of neon signs, crumbling brick walls, and the faint hum of endless motion.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes barely visible behind the dark sunglasses. "Where to?" he grunted, his thick accent making the words harder to understand. Adyan fumbled with the address for a moment, then spoke it quietly, his voice feeling foreign even to himself. "Queens. Jackson Heights."
As the cab moved through the streets, Adyan tried to absorb every detail, though it all seemed too much to take in. He noticed how the sidewalk vendors sold hot dogs and pretzels at every corner, how the faces of the people seemed to blend together in an endless sea of unfamiliarity. He tried to focus on his breathing, to calm the nervous energy racing through his veins. In his head, the plan was simple: come to New York, start over, create Lift, and change everything. But reality? Reality was far messier.
The apartment his uncle had rented for him was in a cramped, aging building tucked away from the city's glittering center. The small space smelled of garlic and onions, a familiar scent that reminded him of home, but it still felt foreign. It was a far cry from the spacious flat he had shared with his parents in Dhaka. His uncle was a man of few words, absorbed in his own work, leaving Adyan to navigate this new life largely on his own. The other tenants, also immigrants, lived their lives in the background. There was no one to explain how things worked here, no familiar faces to turn to. It was a space that offered no comfort but a lot of opportunity—just like the city itself.
By nightfall, the city outside seemed even more distant. The apartment, though cramped, was quiet—save for the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout from the street, and the faint music from an old radio that seemed to always play in the background. Adyan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. He'd heard about the opportunity here, the chance to build something, to create a future. But lying in that room, it felt like a weight more than a promise.
The lights from the street outside filtered through the thin curtains, casting a pale glow on the walls. Adyan turned onto his side and pulled the thin blanket closer. His eyes flickered to the small suitcase on the floor, the laptop peeking out from it. That was it—the only tools he had. His future, the dream of Lift, his escape from the life he left behind—it all hinged on that laptop.
As the hours stretched on, sleep became elusive. He whispered to himself, "I won't waste this." The words barely formed, but they carried the weight of everything he had left behind and everything that lay ahead. Tomorrow, he would begin. Tomorrow, he would make this city his.