I'm Still Here

By the time Eli got home, the sky had gone dark.

Not in the heavy way that sometimes pressed on her chest until breathing felt like remembering how to. No, tonight was different. It was the kind of dark that felt gentle—soft around the edges, as if the world itself had dimmed the lights just enough to whisper, You're safe now. The kind of dark that reminded her of childhood sleepovers and late-night secrets exchanged under makeshift blanket forts. The kind of dark that made her believe, just for a little while, that the sky was listening.

She slipped in through the front door quietly, careful not to let it creak too loud. The house was mostly still, the familiar hum of the fridge in the kitchen blending with the quiet tick of the living room clock. She could hear the faint clinking of dishes left to dry in the sink—an unfinished rhythm that made the place feel lived-in, warm. Home.

A small note sat on the kitchen table, half-curled at the edge but unmistakably in her mom's handwriting:

"Cake's in the fridge. Didn't want to interrupt your day. Love you always."

Eli read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower. Her chest tightened unexpectedly, and for a reason she couldn't quite name, her throat felt tight too. Maybe it was the careful way the words were written. Or the quiet sort of love in them. Or maybe it was just that someone remembered—even when she didn't ask to be remembered.

She opened the fridge door. A small slice of vanilla cake waited on the top shelf, a single candle already stuck in it like it was trying its best. The sight of it made her heart ache in a tender, aching sort of way.

She didn't light it. It didn't feel like a cake kind of night.

Instead, she carried herself upstairs and into her room, where the ceiling fan spun lazily overhead and the posters on her wall looked more like echoes than decorations now. She sat cross-legged on the floor, pulled the old memory box from under her bed, and opened it like she was unsealing a time machine.

Inside were pieces of the past: glittery stickers, concert tickets, keychains from field trips, a feather from some bird she swore was lucky at age ten. Faded drawings of castles, scribbled poems about dragons, small folded notes passed in class. She touched each item like it was a page in a story only she knew how to read.

Near the bottom of the box, tucked underneath a crinkled camp photo and a half-broken friendship bracelet, was a small letter, taped shut and marked in glittery pen:

"OPEN WHEN YOU TURN 18."

She blinked, surprised. She had no memory of writing it.

With careful fingers, she peeled away the tape. The folded paper was slightly yellowed at the edges, but the writing inside was unmistakably hers—round, messy, full of life. Her twelve-year-old self had signed it in sparkly ink.

---

Dear Eli (older, hopefully taller Eli),

I don't know what being 18 feels like. But I bet it's scary.

I hope you still sing in the shower and talk to the moon sometimes. I hope you still write poems and draw dragons and don't care if it looks dumb. I hope you still love things, even if they're small.

I hope you forgive people, even when it's hard. And I hope you remember to forgive yourself too.

It's okay to cry. It's okay to be afraid. Just don't stop showing up.

And if everything feels too big, just take it one piece at a time. You don't have to know who you are yet. You're still becoming.

You're not running out of time. You're stepping into it.

Love,

Eli (but the tiny version)

---

Eli read it slowly, and then again, until the words blurred a little. Her heart felt full and fragile all at once. It was like finding an old lighthouse you didn't remember building, still shining in the fog.

She rested the letter on her lap and stared out the window.

The moon was full.

She stood up, walked over, and opened the curtains wide, letting the cool night air drift in. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once. A wind chime whispered. The streetlights glowed amber and quiet.

She leaned against the windowsill, looking up.

And with a soft breath, she whispered, "Hey. I'm still here."

And just like that—quiet and honest and real—she smiled.

Not the kind you force. The kind that sneaks up on you when you finally let go.

She didn't have all the answers. There was still so much ahead—some of it beautiful, some of it unknown, maybe even a little bit terrifying.

But for the first time that day, the future didn't feel like something chasing her.

It felt like something she was finally ready to meet.

Tomorrow is coming.

And she would be there to greet it.