Elira

She grew up faster than the streets around us—learning silence, control, and how to survive without asking. By twenty-six, she moves with quiet authority, power worn lightly, fear following without effort. I’m eighteen and unfinished, still measuring myself against her shadow. We shared a childhood once, scraped knees and promises, but she moved forward and I stayed small. I learned to bully myself before anyone else could. Around her, I shrink on purpose, telling myself the truth I believe keeps me alive: if she stepped on me, I’d end like an ant. Not because she’s cruel—but because she doesn’t need to care. She’s my childhood best friend—now twenty-seven, hardened by the world. I’m nineteen, still small beside her. She loves me like her own child, not because I’m younger, but because she chose to protect me. Her care isn’t soft or gentle; it’s firm, watchful, absolute. She can be evil to everyone else, but with me, she stands in front, never behind. She loves me like her own child. Not gently, not with words—but with protection. The world can hurt itself; I never will.