I found this photo in my gallery today, it's 3 years old and the second I saw it, I remembered everything.

A school friend (still one of my favorite people) had suggested we go out at night for coffee and reading. And I love the night but only from the safety of my room. Being out in it felt… rare. Almost forbidden in a way that made it magical.

I begged my mom for so long to let me go. It was just a 10-minute walk, I wouldn’t be alone, I promised I’d be back by 11. Eventually, she said yes.

And it turned out to be one of the most whimsical nights I’ve ever had. We actually read. I had a cookie. Everything felt new and a little unreal like I had stepped into a softer version of life I didn’t usually get to live.

But when we stepped out, I saw my mom waiting there. She hadn’t gone home.

And just like that… something shifted. The illusion broke.

I know she did it out of love. Out of fear. Out of wanting me safe.

But looking at that picture today, I realized… I never really did anything like that again. Not because I didn’t want to.

But because I didn’t want her to feel that kind of worry again.

I still wonder if it was fair? But the world isn’t always a kind place after all, and maybe she just knew that better than I did.