I know I need to let go, but I just can't.
Elias
She said she wanted to take the bus.
"I think I'm ready," she told me. Voice quiet but steady.
Like she was still trying to convince herself.
I didn't argue.
Just showed her the route on the app.
Walked her through how to check timing.
Gave her the TAP card from my wallet and double-checked that her phone was charged.
Then I watched her leave.
Back straight. Chin lifted. Nervous smile trying to pass for confidence.
She didn't look back.
I waited five minutes.
Then grabbed my keys.
I told myself I wasn't following.
But I was.
Kept two cars behind the bus the whole way.
Enough distance so she wouldn't see me.
One eye on the road, the other on the tracker signal synced to my phone.
The bus kept going.
She was supposed to get off at the third stop.
She didn't.
I could picture her—
Standing. Pausing.
Maybe she saw the crowd and stepped back.
Shrank into herself like she used to.
The doors closed.
The bus pulled away.
She was still on it.
And something in my chest folded in on itself.
It wasn't pain. Not the kind I could point to.
It was deeper. Heavier.
The kind that settled behind your ribs and waited for permission to break.
I moved.
The truck crawled behind the bus, slow and careful.
I had her location on my phone—small blue dot drifting further from campus with every second.
Then she got off.
Wrong stop. One block too far.
Should've been nothing.
But for her, one block was a cliff edge.
She froze on the sidewalk.
Didn't move.
Didn't text.
Didn't turn around.
I drove forward a little and then turn around, pulled over, just in case.
Then I saw the look on her face.
I knew that look—how her body curled in on itself when her brain started spinning.
I'd seen it before. Too many times.
And my fingers clenched around the steering wheel so hard I thought it might crack.
I almost got out.
Almost walked across the street and said, "Come on, it's okay, let's go home."
But I didn't.
Because this was her idea.
Because if I showed up now—
I'd undo everything she was trying to prove to herself.
Still, watching her crouch by the edge of that road—eyes blank, lips moving like she was saying something just to stay grounded—
It was like standing outside a burning house, knowing I couldn't go in.
I didn't breathe.
I couldn't.
Until she started walking again.
The dot moved. One block. Then two. Slow. Measured. Scared.
But she moved.
And I followed, far enough not to be seen, close enough to see her.
Fifteen minutes later, she crossed onto the campus lawn.
I saw her from the truck.
Backpack slouched, head low, legs dragging—but upright.
She was late. Sweaty. Shaken.
But she made it.
And I sat there, still gripping the wheel, throat tight.
I didn't follow further.
Didn't let her see me.
Didn't remind her of the necklace around her neck—the one I gave her on her sixteenth birthday, after a year of never setting foot outside the house.
I told her what it was back then.
A gift. But also a safety net.
"There's a button hidden underneath," I'd said. "If you're ever in danger—press it. I'll come. No matter what."
She'd nodded.
And kept wearing it.
Every day since.
Not only because she thought she'd need it.
But also because she trusted me.
Maybe too much.
Today, she didn't press it.
And that broke me more than anything.
Not because I wanted her to need me.
Or maybe I do?
But because, for once—
She chose not to.
She's growing.
Leaving the house.
Getting lost.
Finding her way.
And me—I'm supposed to let her.
She's not fifteen anymore.
She's not flinching at doorways or hiding under blankets at night.
She's showing up.
Trying.
But the truth is—I remember who she used to be.
The first year she came home with me, she didn't leave the house once.
Didn't set foot past the gate.
Even walking to the mailbox made her freeze.
And now?
She's riding buses.
Navigating campus.
Getting lost—and still showing up.
And I'm proud.
I really am.
But I'd be lying if I said it didn't scare the hell out of me.
Because the world isn't kind.
And she's still too soft for it.
Too good.
Too trusting.
She wears the necklace because I gave it to her.
Because I said it'd keep her safe.
She never questioned it.
Never even took it off.
Sometimes I wonder if she remembers that it's still there.
That I could find her anywhere.
That I did.
And maybe that's what scares me the most.
Not her leaving.
Not her growing.
But the fact that she might not always need me watching.
Might not always need me at all.
So no—I didn't let her go completely.
But I'm trying.
Trying to loosen my grip.
Trying to let her live.
But never too far.
Never. Too. Far.