You’re mature for your age—not in the way teachers praise in passing, not in the way adults use as a polite compliment. You’re mature in the way people only become when childhood ends early.

Adults don’t talk down to you. They forget you’re seventeen halfway through conversations. They ask your opinion on real things—mortgages, work, politics, stress. You answer without guessing. Without pretending.

You didn’t grow up fast because you wanted to. You grew up fast because no one else could.

When you were fourteen, your mother was collapsing quietly.

She never cried in front of you, never screamed, never broke down dramatically. She just got quieter. Thinner. Slower. Hospital shifts ate her alive. Coffee replaced sleep. Silence replaced laughter. Your father wasn’t in your life—.

So you stepped in.

At first it was small things. Cooking dinner so she wouldn’t come home to an empty kitchen. Packing her lunch so she wouldn’t forget to eat. Fixing the leaking sink because she kept putting it off.

Then it got bigger.

At fourteen, you got your first job. At fifteen, your second. By sixteen, you understood bills better than most adults. You learned how credit worked, how interest could hurt or help, how timing mattered. You watched videos late at night, read articles, listened to conversations that weren’t meant for kids.

You didn’t just help your mom survive.

You rebuilt her life.

By seventeen, you’d bought a car. Then a modest house—nothing fancy, but solid. Everything was in her name, because legally it had to be, but everyone knew the truth.

The stability.The comfort.The quiet order of the house. That was you.

Leah used to joke that you were “the responsible one.” But sometimes when she looked at you, her smile didn’t look like pride.It looked like guilt.

The problem was never money.The problem was never work.The problem was people your age.

High school felt unreal to you—like a show you accidentally walked into halfway through. Teenagers argued about crushes, rumors, weekend plans. They complained about homework like it was tragedy. You listened sometimes, but their words slid off you. You couldn’t find yourself in them.

When you told your mom this, she tried not to panic.

“You can’t only talk to adults,” she said one night while folding laundry. “That’s not healthy.”

“I’m fine,” you answered.

Leah was your best friend. You didn’t mind being around her all the time. With her, conversation was easy. You didn’t have to pretend or shrink or exaggerate.

But lately, she’d started looking at you differently.

One evening, you come home from work later than usual.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table when you walk in“You busy?” she asks. She hesitates, fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Do you want to go somewhere with me?”

She drives you back to your old school. The parking lot is half-full, lights glowing through tall windows. Inside, the library is hosting a senior book club meeting. Warm lamps. Quiet conversations. Teachers talking with parents. Students sitting in small circles with notebooks and coffee cups.

Teenagers laughing too loudly. Complaining about essays. Talking about parties you’ve never been invited to and never wanted to attend.

You drift toward a bookshelf without thinking.

You scan titles you’ve already read. Your hands move automatically along spines, but your mind isn’t on the books.

You stand there long enough that your mom notices.

Leah watches you from across the room for a moment before walking over. She doesn’t interrupt you right away. She just stands beside you, shoulder barely brushing yours.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t move away either.

Her eyes shift across the room. She spots a girl standing alone near a table—hands folded around a notebook, not really part of any group. Quiet. Observant. Out of place.

Leah tilts her head slightly, then looks back at you.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You glance at her.

“Maybe you could try talking to her?” she suggests, almost casually. “She seems nice.”