The sun was already sliding into the ocean by the time I walked back home, sky painted in slow-burning pastels. Orange like hope. Blue like hesitation. Pink like something I couldn't name.
The house felt different after a full day out — like it had exhaled while I was gone.
I kicked off my sneakers and padded into the kitchen. The note was still there on the counter, curling at the edges now like it had been waiting all day to be noticed again. I brushed my fingers across it, but left it where it was.
"Zoey?" my mom called from the living room.
"Yeah," I said, poking my head in. She was sitting on the couch in her scrubs, one foot tucked under her, a glass of water balanced on the armrest. Her hair was pulled back loosely, and there was a tired softness in her face — not just from work, but something else. Something more fragile.
"Can we talk?" she asked gently, patting the seat next to her.
I nodded and sat down, pulling my knees to my chest.
She didn't start right away. We just sat there for a few moments, listening to the ticking clock on the wall and the distant sound of someone mowing their lawn two houses down.
Then, finally, she said, "I know I've been… pushing a little lately."
"A little?" I raised an eyebrow, but there was no heat in my voice.
She smiled faintly. "Okay, maybe a lot. It's just… you're my only kid, Zo. And now suddenly, you're eighteen, and graduating, and everything's about to change. I guess I'm trying to hold on before it all speeds up."
"It already has," I murmured. "Everything feels like it's sprinting, and I'm the only one still tying my shoes."
Her smile faded, replaced by something more serious. "I don't want to pressure you into anything. I just want you to be prepared. To have options. I see how talented you are — how much you feel things, how you write them down like they might disappear if you don't catch them in time."
That caught me off guard. "You read my poems?"
"Only the ones you leave scattered on the kitchen table," she said, holding up her hands in surrender. "I swear I didn't go snooping."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't.
She reached out, brushing a piece of hair from my face. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. But I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"That whatever you choose — writing, college, a gap year, even staying here a little longer — you do it because you want it. Not because you're scared. And not because you think it'll make me proud."
I swallowed hard. "What if I don't know what I want yet?"
"Then we figure it out together," she said. "Slowly. Messily. That's how most things worth doing happen."
There it was again. That lump in my throat. The one that always showed up when she reminded me she wasn't just a mom who paid bills and gave lectures — she was a person who knew me better than I sometimes knew myself.
"I love you, you know," I whispered. "Even when I act like I don't want to talk."
She squeezed my hand. "I know. And I love you, even when I'm too tired to say it right."
We sat there a little longer, and for once, the silence between us felt full instead of empty.
Later that night, I opened my notebook again.
June 11
Tonight, the house was quiet
but not lonely.
Mom was tired,
but still showed up.
I was scared,
but said what I needed.
Sometimes, love isn't loud.
Sometimes it's just a seat on the couch
and someone willing to sit with you
until you're ready to speak.