45th Street, New York City, 1996.

19 years old.

I laid on the top bunk in my room at the Big Apple Hostel. I laid on my stomach, with the covers pulled up over my head. All my clothes were on.

I had just moved to New York and I was so afraid. It was the first time I had been on my own and the warnings of those I’d left behind echoed through my head. New York was full of murderers, rapists, and thieves. Dammit. I had always been under the impression it was full of actors, singers, and friends. What a shame that the first idea would ultimately keep me from enjoying the latter.

For the most part, I had successfully avoided the other travelers who passed in and out of my room. But that night, two funny Asian guys caught my attention. They seemed very intent on talking to me. One was more conservative than the other. He spoke English and was traditional in appearance. The other had wild blond hair and was constantly bouncing off the walls. He laughed at everything. He laughed at nothing. He did not speak English. His friend constantly apologized for his behavior.

For their benefit, I kept my head up to let them know I was paying attention. I did not want to be rude. I still laid on my stomach. The covers were still over me. But I was intrigued.

The English-speaking friend told me they were going to walk over the bridge to see the skyline of Manhattan at night. He also told me they wanted me to come along.

Because that did not seem like a safe idea, I politely declined and told them I had other plans.

I’m sure I waited for them to leave before I scampered from my fortress on the top bunk. Then, I hurried out of the hostel and began walking toward the tip of the island. It was that night I had decided to pay a visit to the World Trade Center.

It was dark, which made me feel safe and unsafe at the same time. It made me feel safe because nobody could see me. I was alone. Nobody could bother me or tell me what to do. Nobody could tell me it wasn’t a good idea to visit the World Trade Center at night. Nobody could tell me I was an idiot for wanting to be in New York in the first place. I was free. I was alive. Energy coursed through me that made me feel happy. I needed to feel happy. The numbness I had experienced in previous months had almost destroyed me several times over.

And it was same numbness that made me feel apathetic toward the dangers of a girl wandering alone through the streets of Manhattan at night. If someone were to kill me, I didn’t care. If I was supposed to die then, they would simply be putting me out of my misery.

By that point, the torture I felt had been intense and already gone on for too long.

I could have never realized it had only just begun.

That night, as I reached the tip of the island, my heart swelled as the two glorious towers reached skyward before me. I craned my neck in awe. They were overwhelming. They were gorgeous. Combined, they were 220 stories of sprawling magnificence.

I was dumbfounded in amazement.

When I finally stepped inside, their familiarity enveloped me like a long lost daughter. My being was suddenly transformed.

Inside them, I felt like the world was mine. I felt recognized. I felt relaxed.

Inside them, I felt safe.