I was still sitting on the floor in my room when Maya walked in like she owned the place.
"You didn't answer my texts," she said, dropping a bag of kettle corn and two iced teas on my bed like peace offerings.
"I know," I said, glancing up. "Sorry. Just needed some time."
Maya sat cross-legged on the carpet beside me, inspecting my face like she was looking for cracks.
"So?" she asked. "Did he cry? Did you cry? Do I need to key his car?"
I smiled — really smiled — for the first time all morning. "No tears. No keys. It was actually… fine. He apologized. I listened. That's it."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "That's it? Zoey Andrews, Queen of Holding Emotional Grudges Until the End of Time, just let him talk and didn't throw sand in his face?"
I laughed. "I thought about it."
She leaned her head back against my bed. "Well. That's growth."
For a few seconds, we just sat there, the sounds of my neighborhood seeping in through the window — birds, a distant lawnmower, the occasional bark from the Miller's golden retriever.
Then Maya reached into her tote bag and pulled out a folder — thick, heavy, edges frayed. She dropped it onto my lap.
"What's this?" I asked.
"My acceptance letter," she said, quieter now. "And the financial aid packet. And a map of the campus. And… all of it. I wanted you to see."
I opened the folder slowly, thumbing through the papers.
"You're really doing it," I said.
She nodded. "Yeah. I am."
"You're leaving," I added, not as a question.
Maya looked at me then, her eyes suddenly softer. "Zo, I'm terrified."
I blinked. "You? Terrified? You're literally the boldest person I know. You once climbed onto the school roof in eighth grade just to prove a point."
"Exactly," she said. "I always jump first. But this time… it feels real. Like everything's about to change. And I keep thinking — what if I'm the only one changing? What if I leave and you stay and we become… different people?"
I didn't answer right away.
Because the truth was, I had wondered the same thing. A thousand times.
But then I thought about my notebook. The letter I wrote this morning. The tab still open on my laptop.
"I'm applying," I said quietly.
Maya's eyes widened. "Wait — what?"
"I'm serious. I opened the application. I wrote a personal statement draft last night. I don't know where I'm going yet, but I'm not staying still."
Maya's mouth broke into a slow, disbelieving grin. "You're applying."
"I'm applying."
And just like that, she lunged forward and hugged me, arms tight around my shoulders, like she'd been holding her breath and could finally exhale.
We stayed like that for a while — just two girls on a bedroom floor, caught between childhood and the great unknown.
Eventually, she pulled back and looked me in the eyes. "You're brave, you know."
"I don't feel brave," I admitted.
"You don't have to. You just have to keep moving."
We split the popcorn. Drank the iced teas. Talked about dorm rooms and deadlines and future majors we weren't sure about.
And even though nothing was certain, one thing was: we weren't walking into this alone.
June 15
Sometimes
bravery looks like hitting "submit."
Sometimes it looks like letting someone hug you
when you're afraid to ask for it.
We talk so much about leaping —
but maybe it starts with standing.
Just standing,
together,
at the edge of the beginning