I'm Still Here

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

Not in the way it sometimes did—heavy and suffocating, when every shadow felt like it carried a secret too loud to ignore, when even the stars seemed to be keeping their distance. No, tonight's darkness was different. It was tender, quiet, almost intimate. The kind of dark that wrapped around the edges of the world like a blanket rather than a curtain. It didn't press on her chest or fill her with dread. Instead, it softened everything—the rooftops, the empty streets, even the echo of her own thoughts. It was the kind of dark that reminded her of childhood sleepovers with fairy lights tangled in bedsheets, of whispered stories told under makeshift blanket forts while the rest of the world fell away.

It was the kind of dark that made her believe, just for a little while, that the sky might actually be listening.

She slipped in through the front door as quietly as she could, careful not to let it creak too loudly, though no one was likely to mind. The house greeted her with a warm hush. The soft whir of the ceiling fan in the living room hummed in the distance, blending with the quiet tick of the wall clock and the gentle sighs of the house settling into itself. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and something else—maybe the candles her mom liked to light in the evening, or maybe just the scent of home, of comfort, of routine.

On the kitchen table, under the dim glow of the overhead light, sat a small folded note. The paper had curled slightly at the corners, like it had been waiting for her. The handwriting was unmistakably her mom's—looping, neat, always written with a kind of carefulness that said the words mattered.

"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, letting each word settle. Her chest tightened with something she couldn't quite name. Maybe it was the simplicity of it. The quiet way it said, "I see you," without asking for anything in return. Or maybe it was the fact that someone remembered—even when she hadn't asked to be remembered. That kind of love always took her by surprise.

She opened the fridge door, and there it was: a small slice of vanilla cake waiting on the top shelf, wrapped in plastic wrap with a single candle already stuck in it. A lone flame that never got lit. It looked like it was trying its best—sincere, a little awkward, like someone showing up with flowers they weren't sure you'd want.

Her throat felt tight again, that peculiar ache that comes with being loved in quiet ways. The kind of love that doesn't shout, but stays. She didn't light the candle. It didn't feel like a cake kind of night.

Instead, she climbed the stairs slowly, letting the quiet accompany her, her footsteps muffled against the carpeted steps. Her room was just as she left it, but everything felt slightly changed now, as though turning eighteen had subtly shifted the way her world fit around her. The posters on her wall—faded at the corners—looked more like echoes than decorations. Her bookshelf, once bursting with stories, now felt more like a museum of who she used to be.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and reached under her bed, fingers feeling for something familiar. Her hand closed around the edges of the old memory box—metallic, dented at one side, covered in old stickers that were peeling from age and time. She dragged it out gently, placed it in front of her, and opened it like she was unlocking a time machine.

Inside were fragments of her past, soft and strange and sacred. Glittery stickers from elementary school. Worn-out concert tickets. Faded keychains from field trips long gone. A single feather she swore belonged to a lucky bird she saw once in a park when she was ten. Crumpled drawings of castles, notebook pages filled with half-finished poems about dragons and moonlight, friendship bracelets woven in chaotic colors. She touched each item like it was a heartbeat. Like it might vanish if she wasn't gentle.

And near the bottom, half-hidden beneath a camp photo and a note that just said "You got this!!!" in bubble letters, she found it.

A small letter. Taped shut. The paper slightly yellowed and worn from time. In the center, written in sparkly pen, were the words:

"OPEN WHEN YOU TURN 18."

She blinked. She didn't remember writing it.

With careful fingers, she peeled away the tape, unfolding the letter slowly like it might crumble in her hands. The handwriting inside was unmistakably hers—round, messy, full of energy and honesty. It was like hearing her younger self's voice echo through the paper.

---

Dear Eli (older, hopefully taller Eli),

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

I hope you still sing in the shower and talk to the moon sometimes. I hope you still write stories and draw dragons and dance around your room even if no one's watching. I hope you still care about things—even the small ones, especially the small ones.

I hope you're still kind. I hope you laugh loud. I hope you still try to see the good in people, even when it's hard. And I hope you remember to forgive yourself when you mess up.

It's okay to cry. It's okay to be scared. Just don't stop showing up. Don't stop being you.

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

You're not running out of time.

You're just stepping into it.

Love,

Eli (but the tiny version)

---

She read it once, then again. By the third time, her hands were shaking a little, and her breath hitched quietly. It was like her twelve-year-old self had sent a life raft across time, one she didn't even realize she would need. The words wrapped around her like an embrace—unpolished, honest, full of magic.

She laid the letter on her lap and stared out the window, blinking slowly.

The moon was full. Soft and silver, casting long shadows across her floor like threads of light. She stood, walked over, and pulled the curtains wide. The night air slipped in gently, carrying with it the quiet perfume of spring and the faint sound of wind chimes dancing somewhere nearby.

She leaned against the windowsill and looked up, her voice just a whisper.

"Hey. I'm still here."

She didn't expect an answer. But she felt something settle inside her—something like peace. Something like stillness.

And then, slowly, softly, she smiled.

Not the kind of smile you put on for someone else. Not the kind that masks or deflects. But the kind that happens when something inside you loosens. When you finally let yourself feel it all—the love, the fear, the uncertainty, the hope—and realize it's okay to hold all of it at once.

She didn't have everything figured out. There were still questions without answers. Still wounds that hadn't fully healed. Still dreams she wasn't sure she was allowed to have.

But for the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel like something chasing her.

It felt like something waiting for her to arrive.

Tomorrow would come. And she would be there to greet it.

Not as someone who had all the answers. Not as someone who needed to prove anything.

But as Eli.

Still growing.

Still dreaming.

Still here.