Death-Cast can’t call me because I’m not registered for their service. Not that they would anyway since my life is only getting started.

If anything, I feel like I’ve been reborn today.

Rebirths feel appropriate as someone born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. Now it’s time to restart my life in none other than New York. From the Valley of the Sun to the Big Apple. I’ve been dreaming about this city for so long that after I printed out my boarding pass at the airport and saw PHX ➔ LGA, I broke down and cried. That one-way ticket meant I would never have to see my parents ever again. That I could build a new home with my twin sister.

I probably shouldn’t have booked the window seat on my flight over. I did my best to keep it together as the plane bulleted down the runway and shot into the sky. It turns out my best is awful. As all the buildings and roads and mountains kept shrinking from view, I cried in the clouds. My seatmate seemed judgy, admittedly. It made me wish even more that my sister was next to me as she should’ve been before a last-minute work opportunity came up. Thankfully, Scarlett will be on the first red-eye out to join me in our new apartment.

Five hours later, when New York came into focus, everything felt right, even though I’d never stepped foot among those skyscrapers and parks. Then we landed and I rolled my suitcases straight to the taxi line, where everyone else seemed miserable waiting, but I was so excited to finally ride inside these classic yellow taxicabs that I’d seen on TV and as props in magazine ads. The driver could tell I’d never been here before since I never stopped watching the street life. That first step onto the curb felt like a movie moment, as if cameras should’ve been flashing; there will be time for that later.

As of tonight, as of now, I can call myself a New Yorker.

Or maybe I have to wait until my landlord finally greets me with my apartment key so I can be certain that I wasn’t scammed after finding this studio on Craigslist. While I’m waiting, I’m taking in my little corner of the Upper East Side. There’s a tiny pizzeria right next door that’s trying to lure me inside with the smell of garlic knots. Honking cars pull my attention back to the street, where someone old enough to be my grandfather is screaming into his phone to be heard over the music blasting from the bar on the corner.

This city is loud, and I love it.

I wonder if I’ll ever miss the quiet of my old neighborhood.