Your suitcase lay open on the floor like a secret you didn’t want to tell. It was nearly midnight in Los Angeles, the windows of your room cracked open to let in the warm, restless air, and you sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, folding the last stack of clothes with fingers that didn’t want to finish.

A pile of things still hovered on the edge of your bed: your favorite hoodie, the one you stole from Tate and never gave back; the cheer bow you swore you wouldn’t need but couldn’t stop looking at; a stack of Polaroids of you and your friends taped into an envelope you weren’t sure you’d be able to open once you were gone.

Your mom leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching you. She’d been quiet all evening, hovering without hovering, drifting in and out of your room under the pretense of “making sure you had your passport, making sure you had your chargers, making sure you had your adapters.” But you knew what she was really doing: memorizing. Every movement, every expression, every inch of you before ten months of distance carved itself between you.

“You can leave the bow,” she said softly, voice rough from hours of not crying. “You don’t need that in Spain.”

You looked up, caught her eyes, and laughed weakly. “Mom, it’s not Spain. It’s Denmark.”

“Whatever. Europe,” she said, waving a hand like geography was the least of her concerns. Her lips trembled into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Point is—you don’t need it.”

“I do.” You picked it up, twirling the ribbon around your finger. “It’s part of me.”

She sighed, walking in and sitting on the edge of your bed, just where you’d sat so many nights telling her about practice, about grades, about the boy who asked you out and the boy you turned down. She smoothed the comforter absentmindedly, her rings catching the light.

“You were supposed to stay seventeen forever,” she murmured.

“Not possible.”

“It should be.”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything neither of you wanted to say. You stuffed the bow into the side pocket of your suitcase and zipped it with a final, decisive tug. The sound was louder than it should’ve been.

“That’s it,” you said, more to yourself than her. “I’m packed.”

Tate’s shoulders slumped, like the words had taken the air out of her lungs. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… like you’re leaving me.”

Your throat tightened. “Mom. It’s just ten months.”

“Ten months,” she repeated, almost scoffing. “You’ll be seventeen, and I’ll miss your entire year of firsts. You’ll come back and be eighteen, and it won’t be the same.” She shook her head, pressing her palms against her eyes. “I had you when I was eighteen. Do you understand what that means? My whole life has been you. And now—”

Her voice broke, and that was the part you couldn’t bear. Tate never broke in front of anyone, not in interviews, not on stage, not even when she was dead on her feet after shows. But she broke for you.