Notre Dame’s cold air kept me awake. Mom’s Spanish ranting was muffled to me. “Why did she book them so early, what was her hurry?” I had half a mind to turn around and give her a piece. It’s not our fault we live 645 miles from her new home.

We got lucky on our second Uber; an old man and his silver Toyota drove the three-hour distance to Chicago. The fields passing by mocked me, and thoughts my mom had been feeding me the night before in the hotel crescendoed. She lives in the middle of nowhere. She won’t adjust. There were barely any Latinos at New Student Indoctrination. Now, even fewer in her college classes.

The thoughts were hushed the closer we were to O’Hare International. The slatecolored metro passing by kept my frantic mind occupied. When we arrived at the airport, the rising sun was now peaking. Cars drove past us, leaving a breeze as a sign of their presence.

The blues and grays of security bins and tiling contrasted against the colors inside of the Pasquerilla Center I had been in hours prior. Its browns and beiges, with the orange lights bouncing off the dark oak finish. Those same comforting hues taunted me as I sat in the lobby. My mom was across the table while my phone was flashing my sister’s texts of “I can’t leave” and “I’m sorry, I thought I would be able to see you.” It was barely 8 a.m. and I was already crying. Not that it was unexpected for me, I just didn’t realize we wouldn’t be able to hug and give our final goodbyes.

Thoughts were harshly shoved back by reality as we stepped beyond security. After being dragged to take a picture in the middle of a hall of flags, we continued debating on a place to eat.

The orange and browns of the packaging, mixed with the strong coffee my mom ordered, was the same feeling I had gotten as we walked through Notre Dame’s sunrise. It’s the same feeling I get with my sister; warm hues, sweetened atole scorching my throat, and big blankets as we binge-watch a new show.

It was a small sense of reassurance that she would be fine. But she wasn’t with us enjoying the moment. No more food being stolen from me or conversations about the world. The realization caused me to finish my torta and hibiscus juice. The jalapeño was spicier and the juice went sour.

The trip was a symbolic ceremony of sorts. Clingy younger sibling leaves their older sister in a foreign town. The melancholic atmosphere lingered as the thought had me chuckling hours into our delay. Nothing but the cold feeling of a mango smoothie and warm apple pie filled my gut. An odd mixture between warm and cold.

Coming home from the airport and laying in bed, the flooding from my eyes was proof enough; 61 days without her was going to be harder than I initially thought.

A lot of who I am can be traced back to my sister, Samara — one of my first teachers, and my best friend.

I’ve always had her around. I’m used to seeing her tired eyes coming home from an hour’s drive from school. Bright spring days of watching her play soccer. The heat of the sun as we lay on the beach seeing who could get the darker tan and warm apple cider during Halloween. The warmth that fills our home every time she laughs.

It’s quiet without her. It’s colder in my room now.