The smell of smoke still clung to my hair when I woke up. My shoes were kicked halfway under the bed, and my phone had four new messages from Maya, each more dramatic than the last:
Girl, I saw the whole thing.
He was watching you like you hung the moon.
You were so calm I wanted to throw my soda at him.
Also, I saved you a marshmallow in my pocket. You're welcome.
I didn't reply.
Not yet.
The house was quiet, like it always was on Saturday mornings. Mom had left early again — another shift at the clinic . She'd left a note on the fridge, written in her sharp cursive: Zoey — don't forget to take out the trash. And think about the college apps. Love, Mom.
I read it three times, then folded it into my palm like a secret.
College.
It had always been this far-off, abstract idea, like adulthood itself — something I could orbit but not touch. But lately, I felt it creeping closer, tightening around the edges of my freedom. The future was coming whether I was ready or not.
And for once… maybe I was ready.
I padded upstairs, grabbed my notebook from under my pillow, and sat by the window. The early sun painted golden stripes across my carpet. I flipped to a blank page and began writing — not poetry this time, but something quieter. A letter to myself. Or maybe a prayer. Or both.
Dear Me,
I saw him last night. And I didn't break.
He said he wanted to be part of my life again. He said he remembered my poems. That used to mean everything. Now it just feels like… something I used to need.
I think I'm finally starting to let go of who I was when I loved him. She was soft, maybe too soft. She bent herself into shapes just to be easier to hold.
But today I feel like something stronger.
Something sharper.
I'm not waiting anymore. Not for someone else to tell me who I am or where I should go.
I'm going to apply. For real this time. Not because Mom wants me to. Not because Maya or Rey have plans. But because I want a life that I built from scratch. One where I get to decide who I am.
I don't know where I'll end up.
But I'm ready to find out.
Love,
Z.
By the time I closed the notebook, something inside me had shifted. Not in a dramatic, movie-montage kind of way. But in a quiet, anchored way. Like I'd taken the first real step.
I opened my laptop. Opened the college application page I'd bookmarked months ago.
And this time, I didn't close it