"I don't know why you're so anxious," my mom leans against my door and says, and I sigh.

"Mom, I don't have a Christmas gift for him." I mutter to myself as I repack my bag.

For my trip with Kent, I had to visit my apartment, do laundry, prepare a new bag, and head to the airport. It wasn't the packing that made my stomach churn, but the pressure I placed on myself.

"So? He said he didn't want one, didn't he?" she asks.

"But he's taking me to New York," I say quietly. ...