The Things We Grow Into

"Growth doesn't always look like victory. Sometimes it looks like showing up scared—but still showing up."

Yuna stood in front of the mirror in her dorm room, palms pressed against the desk as if grounding herself. Outside, the sky was pale and trembling, spring rain tapping gently against the glass. The writer's showcase was a week away, and the nerves she'd been holding at bay now surged like a storm tide.

"Breathe," she whispered to herself. "You're allowed to take up space."

She glanced over her poem—edited and rewritten at least fifteen times. It was a piece about her mother. About the silence between them. About all the words they'd never said but had always lived with. She wasn't sure it was "right," but it was honest.

Mina walked in, balancing a matcha latte and a stack of flashcards.

"Still practicing?" she asked, eyeing the paper in Yuna's hand.

Yuna nodded. "I keep rewriting the beginning."

"Don't," Mina said, flopping onto the bed. "The start is already perfect. It feels like a sigh."

"A sigh?"

"The kind you breathe out when you've been holding too much."

Yuna smiled. "You always know how to say exactly what I need to hear."

"It's my best friend superpower."

Later that day, Yuna sat at her favorite spot in Mocha Moon, her notebook open, untouched drink growing lukewarm beside her. Eli was working behind the counter, glancing at her every few minutes. Not hovering—just aware of her.

When his shift ended, he slid into the seat across from her and didn't speak. Just waited.

After a minute, Yuna said, "What if I go up there and forget every line?"

"Then you start again."

"What if I freeze?"

"I'll clap anyway."

"What if I can't do it?"

"You've already done harder things."

She blinked. "Like what?"

"Like letting me in."

She exhaled. "That's not hard. That's safe."

Eli's expression softened. "Good. Because I'll be there. Front row."

Yuna looked at her notebook. "It's about my mom."

"I figured."

"It's not angry. Just… honest."

"You don't owe her forgiveness."

Yuna shook her head. "It's not about forgiveness. It's about me. Finding peace with what I didn't get."

Eli reached across the table and covered her hand. "That's powerful."

"I'm still scared."

"That's how you know it matters."

The night before the showcase, Yuna couldn't sleep.

She sat on the floor with Mina, sorting through old drafts, drinking lukewarm tea, and trying not to spiral.

"I think I'm going to cry tomorrow," she whispered.

"That's fine," Mina said. "Tears are like punctuation. They just add meaning."

"You're weirdly poetic when you're sleep-deprived."

"It's a gift."

Yuna leaned her head on Mina's shoulder.

"You've really helped me grow, you know."

"I didn't do anything."

"You stayed."

Mina turned and kissed the top of her head. "Always."

The next morning, Yuna woke early. Dressed slowly. Chose her favorite earrings. Packed her paper and a pen that felt lucky.

She texted Eli: Today's the day. Scared. But breathing.

He replied seconds later: I'm proud of you already. Save me a seat.

At the showcase, the auditorium hummed with quiet excitement. Friends, family, professors—familiar and unfamiliar faces filled the seats.

Yuna's name was third on the list.

She sat near the front, her hands trembling slightly, her paper folded and unfolded again.

Eli caught her eye from the second row. Gave her the smallest nod.

She stood when called.

Walked slowly to the microphone.

The silence was loud.

She looked down at her paper. Then up.

And began.

Her voice shook at first. But then it didn't.

She read about her mother. About not knowing how to say "I love you" in words they'd never been taught. About healing without an apology. About reclaiming softness.

When she finished, the room was silent for a heartbeat.

Then applause.

Not just polite clapping—but real, warm, loud.

She found Eli's eyes. He was already standing.

So was Mina.

So was half the room.

Yuna sat back down, chest tight with something beautiful.

Later, outside, under the warm glow of campus lights, Eli took her hand.

"I knew you'd move the room," he said.

"I didn't think I could."

"But you did."

She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I feel like I've let go of something heavy," she whispered.

"You did," he said. "And you're lighter for it."

That night, back in her room, Yuna wrote:

"I spoke. And the world didn't end.It opened.And I walked through."