The candles flickered yellow against my dining room wall. My sister, hair adorned with pink scrunchies and a cheesy grin watches as I blow out the 6 candles. We giggle and squeal in excitement when my parents bring a gift to the table.

12 years later I find myself sitting in the same chair. My sister once so young now sits arms crossed, those ripped jeans we used to make fun of and plain hair. My parents sit at the end of the table, wrinkles creased into the corners of their eyes as they smile. The candles count 18.

I breath in my last breath as a kid, and blow out as an adult.

Its graduation day.

We wander the halls we spent days gossiping and stressing over tests, where we met friends and made stupid decisions.

My friends and I chat, anxious. We adjust our caps.

I hear my name and walk to the front of the stage to collect my certificate.

I see my family cheering in the front row, and I smile. I made it.

Today I leave for college. My mom tries to hold back her tears, masking a smile on her face, little does she know im wearing a mask of my own. My sister helps unload boxes, and I organize my dorm. When darkness begins to blsnket the sky I hug my family goodbye one by one. a singular tear escaping my eye.

“Be careful out there.” My dad says, parting at last.