Eli

Eli lay still in her bed, listening to the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock on her desk. The hands moved forward with a confidence she didn't feel. Eleven forty-six p.m. Fourteen minutes until her seventeenth year slipped away for good. Fourteen minutes until everything—and maybe nothing—changed.

Her room felt both too small and too familiar. The corners still held shadows from childhood, the kind that didn't scare her anymore but lingered like old friends who had overstayed their welcome. The walls were the same shade of soft blue her mother had painted when she was ten. They still bore faint smudges from sticker glue and faded tape lines where posters used to hang. A stuffed rabbit sat on her bookshelf, one ear bent the wrong way, its fur thinned from years of being held too tightly on bad nights. She hadn't touched it in months, but she hadn't put it away either.

Eighteen was supposed to be a milestone. A border between "kid" and "adult." But tonight, all it felt like was a question mark. A quiet, unanswered question pressed gently against her chest.

She sat up, the blanket pooling in her lap, and glanced around the room like she was trying to memorize it. Not just the layout—but the feeling. The way the air smelled faintly like the lavender candle she always forgot to blow out. The hum of her ancient fan as it clicked every few seconds. The way the night pressed in softly through her half-open window, bringing with it the scent of spring grass and distant rain.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it without thinking, expecting something—anything—but it was just a notification from an app she hadn't opened in weeks.

"Make a wish. Tomorrow is coming."

Eli stared at it for a long time. Then she locked the screen and set it face-down. She didn't know what to wish for.

She didn't know what she was supposed to want.

People told her turning eighteen meant freedom. Independence. Decisions. A future to build. And that was exciting, wasn't it? She was supposed to want this. To be thrilled at the idea of finally choosing her own path, carving her own way, proving she could do it all.

But all Eli could think about were the things she might be leaving behind.

Not just the stuffed animals and bedtime stories. But the invisible things. The sense that there would always be more time. That mistakes could still be undone. That dreams didn't have to make sense yet.

She slid open the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her old journal—the one with rainbow stars on the cover and pages warped from time. It smelled like dust and pencil lead and her younger self.

Flipping through it was like opening a time capsule.

"I want to be a bird."

"When I'm a grown-up, I'll never be sad."

"I hope Leah and I are still best friends forever."

"I'm scared of losing my mom. I don't know why."

Eli smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hurts. Her handwriting back then was a mess of loops and half-formed letters, but the voice in those pages still sounded like hers. Just... softer. Braver, in a strange way. Before the world got loud.

She closed the journal and hugged it to her chest.

The thing no one tells you about growing up is how many tiny goodbyes you'll have to make. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Like walking out of a house you didn't know you'd never return to.

She didn't want to let go of that house.

She didn't want to leave the girl who believed in fairy tales and cried during cartoons and wore glitter with pride.

But she also knew—deep down—that she couldn't stay the same forever. That maybe the point wasn't holding on, but learning how to bring those pieces with her.

She looked at the clock again. Eleven fifty-nine.

She took a breath. Not a deep one. Not a brave one. Just a breath.

And in that breath, she whispered a quiet promise.

"I'll carry you with me."

The clock turned to midnight.

And tomorrow came.