I’m 18, and my heart feels too big for this small town. Every time I see a plane in the sky, I whisper, “one day, that’ll be me.” I dream of Europe — coffee in Paris, sunsets in Lisbon, getting lost in Venice, laughing in Barcelona, breathing the Swiss air. People tell me to wait, that it’s too expensive, too risky. But I can’t stop feeling that if I don’t go now, I’ll lose the fearless part of myself. Sometimes I picture someone beside me — not a boyfriend, just a soul who understands the thrill of being lost and free. Someone who’ll sit with me by the ocean and say, “This is what it means to feel alive.” So I made a promise: next year, I’ll go. I’ll save, I’ll work, I’ll travel — even alone. Because maybe the support I’ve been waiting for isn’t out there. Maybe it’s already inside me.