It hits me, unexpectedly hard, that this is what she does when she feels safe enough not to protect herself from the world.
She draws me.
Of all things.
Her eyes lift briefly to meet mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t. There’s something in the exchange that feels too honest to break.
Then she looks back down again, and I sense it—the way she’s capturing not just my face, but something underneath it. Something I don’t usually let anyone see, let alone sit still long enough to be recorded.
I should joke. I should move. I should do anything other than sit here and let myself be seen like this.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want to interrupt her version of me.
Not when she looks like this while she’s making it.
She’s across the room, sketchbook open, pencils moving in quiet rhythm.
And I can’t stop thinking.
About everything still ahead of us.
The firsts we haven’t had yet.
There are so many of them it almost feels unreal when I try to list them in my head. Though I am excited to share them with her.
Places she hasn’t seen.
Cities she’s only ever heard about.
Streets she’s never walked down without someone telling her where to go, what to do, what to avoid.
And I am going to be the one who changes that.
I want to take her everywhere.
Not just the big places people post about or dream about, but the small ones too. The quiet corners. The restaurants tucked away where no one knows her name yet, and no one is watching. I want to sit across from her at tables she’s never been allowed to choose for herself and watch her discover things without hesitation, without permission, without restriction.
I think about what she’s already missed.
All the rules.
All the limitations.
The controlled portions of life she was given instead of the full thing.
Something in me tightens at the idea that she ever had to earn basic experiences like they were privileges instead of rights.
That ends now.
It just does.
Because she’s here.
And I’m here.
And I get to change it.
