Millennium Puzzle Pieces

Kai sat cross-legged on his twin bed in his mom’s cramped Brooklyn apartment, scrolling through apartment listings on his laptop. Most of the units were wildly out of budget or looked like they’d collapse in a strong wind. But even the overpriced shoeboxes were tempting compared to where he was now.

He paused on one ad: 1-bedroom in Crown Heights, $2,000/month, no broker fee. The rent would eat up all of his savings, but it was his. No roommates, no baggage—just him and his Dark Magician Girl Funko Pop on a window sill. Still, the thought of paying that much every month made his stomach churn. It wasn’t just money. It was commitment. Independence.

Kai closed the laptop and leaned back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling. How did he end up back here, at 34, living with his mom? It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

Back in 2019, Kai reconnected with Ethan, a childhood friend he’d lost touch with after high school. At first, it felt like destiny—like drawing the exact card you needed in a Yu-Gi-Oh! duel. Ethan was charming, funny, and just edgy enough to make Kai feel like they were kids again, playing cards while teaching each other about the game and trash-talking each other’s moves.

When the pandemic hit in 2020, their bond deepened over forbidden hangouts and smash bros matchups . By 2022, Ethan convinced Kai to move out of his mom’s place and into his queen’s apartment. It seemed perfect: freedom, friendship, and a chance to reboot his life.

But living with Ethan turned out to be like playing against a cheater in a tournament. By the second year, Ethan was skipping his share of the responsibilities, claiming “unexpected expenses.” By year one, he was manipulating Kai to pay most of the mutual bills while adding a second roommate. By year two, the friendship was a toxic cycle of guilt trips, broken promises, and passive-aggressive post-it notes about dishes.

Kai endured it, though, partly because he couldn’t bear the thought of admitting defeat to his mom. She’d warned him, of course.

“You can’t trust people like that, Kai,” she’d said when he first told her he was moving in with Ethan. “He’ll use you, and then where will you be? Back here with me, in time for Armageddon.”

And she wasn’t wrong. By March 2024, after two years of emotional and financial whiplash, Kai packed his things and returned to his mom’s apartment.

Now it was December, and Kai had spent the past few months rebuilding his savings—and his confidence. Living with his mom again had been a trial of patience and endurance. Every morning, he’d wake up to morning texts video messages about the only way to stay protected. Every evening, she’d remind him about the impending end of the world. Her codependency was suffocating, her paranoia exhausting.

“Kai, I don’t think you should go out tonight,” she’d said last week when he mentioned meeting up with friends. “It’s dangerous after dark. You know how things are these days.”

“Mom, it’s just a bar,” he’d replied, exasperated.

“And bars are bad. Even if you go with friends and don’t drink, you need to ask for forgiveness.”

He’d walked out anyway, though the guilt lingered long after he left.

It wasn’t just her fear of the world; it was the way she clung to him, her “only” child, as if he were the last anchor holding her down (like she didn’t have other kids). She didn’t trust the outside world, but she also didn’t trust him to navigate it alone.

Kai opened his laptop again, reopening the Crown Heights listing. The thought of paying $2,000 a month still made his chest tighten. What if he lost his job? What if he couldn’t keep up with the bills? What if he failed again?

But then he thought about Ethan. About the way Ethan had drained him, not just financially but emotionally. And he thought about his mom, the way she hovered over him like a duel spirit that wouldn’t let him shuffle his own deck. How her ability to cling to outdated standards and to project it onto him.

This wasn’t just about an apartment. It was about reclaiming his autonomy.

Kai stood, closing the laptop and heading to the living room. His mom was on the couch, knitting a scarf while a Kingdom Hall livestream played on her tablet.

“Mom, can we talk?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

She paused the video and looked at him, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, though his voice wavered. “I just… I’ve been saving up, and I think it’s time for me to move out.”

Her knitting needles stilled. “Move out? Again?”

“Yeah. I’ve found a place. It’s small, but it’s mine. I need to do this, Mom. For me.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Kai, do you really think this is a good idea? The world’s so unstable right now. And what about your savings? What if something happens? What if you can’t afford it? I’ll move out first. I found this email ad for a place that I might take.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve thought about all of that. But I can’t keep living in fear of ‘what if.’ I need to live my life, Mom. I need to take this step.”

Her eyes glistened with empty tears, but she nodded. “I just… I want you to take me with you so I won’t be alone here again. What will the lord say?”

“I don’t know” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure. “But I have to go my own way, I’ll figure it out. This is something I have to do, for me.”

She reached over, squeezing his hand. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

That night, as he started packing his things—his Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, his Pokémon plushies, his half-finished draft of a queer dystopian novel—Kai felt a sense of clarity he hadn’t had in years.

This wasn’t just about leaving. It was about moving toward something. And this time, no one—no toxic friend, no overbearing mom, no inner voice of doubt—was going to stop him.