Tomorrow Is Coming

Eli didn't sleep that night.

Not because of anxiety this time—but because it felt like something sacred was unfolding around her. Like time had slowed just enough for her to notice how strange and beautiful it was to be caught between two worlds: the girl she'd been and the woman she was just beginning to become.

She stayed in her room for hours after midnight, her lights low, listening to the quiet rhythm of the house. Occasionally, she heard the floorboards creak or the wind tapping against the window. It felt like the world was holding its breath with her.

She spent time cleaning her room, not because it was messy, but because it felt symbolic—like making space. She folded old clothes, straightened books she hadn't read in years, and picked up the scattered drawings she used to hide under her bed. Some were silly, others filled with quiet yearning. She looked at each of them like old friends she hadn't visited in a while.

On her desk sat the slice of birthday cake, the candle now melted down to a stub. She hadn't made a wish when she lit it after midnight. She just watched it burn, silently honoring all the versions of herself who had carried her here.

Then, as the sky began to turn that soft, in-between shade of gray-blue, she opened her window.

The early morning air was cold and smelled faintly of grass and something distant—dew maybe, or dreams that hadn't faded yet.

Eli sat by the window with her knees tucked under her chin, watching the first hints of gold begin to rise on the horizon. She didn't know what she had expected eighteen to feel like, but it wasn't this.

It was quieter.

It was gentler.

It wasn't a transformation with fireworks and fanfare. It was a soft blooming. A whisper that said, You're ready—not because you have everything figured out, but because you're willing to keep going even when you don't.

She reached for her notebook and wrote down a single sentence:

"You're allowed to miss what's behind you, and still move forward. You're allowed to grow slow."

She let the words sit, breathing with them. Feeling their truth.

When the sun finally broke across the sky in full, Eli stepped outside onto the porch. Barefoot. Hoodie wrapped around her, hands tucked into the sleeves like she used to do when she was little.

The neighborhood was still asleep. Cars sat quietly in driveways. No birds chirped yet. It was that rare kind of silence—the kind that feels full, not empty.

She thought about all the pieces of herself she'd collected over the years. All the times she was too loud, too shy, too sensitive, too strange. She thought about the friends who had come and gone. The heartbreaks that made her doubt her own worth. The nights she cried into her pillow, not because of anything dramatic, but because she simply felt too much.

And yet—she was still here.

Still soft.

Still learning.

Still choosing to stay open.

She smiled, small but real.

Not everything needed to be known. Some things, she was learning, only revealed themselves when you gave them time. And for once, she wasn't in a rush.

She didn't need to become something overnight.

She could unfold. One day, one breath, one mistake, one joy at a time.

The sun cast its first real light across the sky, stretching like an invitation.

She whispered into the wind—not with fear, but with quiet certainty:

"Tomorrow is coming."