I’m 18, and I graduated from high school last week.
People keep asking me what’s next, and I keep giving the same vague answers, like I’m reading from a script I didn’t write.
Because the truth is… it doesn’t feel like anything started.
If anything, it feels like something ended too soon, and the world forgot to hit play again.
Everything still smells like the cafeteria — warm rolls, industrial soap, and that sharp cleaning spray that clings to the back of your throat.
Sometimes I swear I hear her footsteps in the kitchen.
Even though I know better.
My grandma raised me. Not part-time. Not “she helped out sometimes.” I mean she was it. The whole deal.
My parents died in a car crash when I was little. I don’t remember the crash itself. Just a few flashes from before — my mom’s laugh, my dad’s watch ticking against the steering wheel, a song playing low on the radio.
Then it was just me and my grandma.
