No one tells you how hard it is to leave your little sister for college. You pack boxes full of clothing and dreams. Family photos and decor for your room. You’ll finally be able to find who you are, and where you belong, the excitement overcoming the realization of what you’re putting her through.

She’s still in pajamas, eating a half-eaten bowl of cereal, asking you if you can visit next weekend. As if that would make you feel like you’re not really leaving. Deep down, you know you can’t truly promise her anything, but seeing the desperation in her eyes, a glimmer of hope—it makes it hard to say no.

You promise her everything—postcards, late night talks about school and boys, silly small gifts from the campus gift store. Anything to see her smile, to see her eyes light up with the excitement you once had. But deep down? You know a part of your heart is staying behind, in the doorway of her room. Where she waved with a smile, the one you had wanted. Only this one didn’t reach her eyes, and you never saw the sparkle you hoped for. The only sparkling you found in her eyes were the tears staining her cheeks.

You feel guilty, like you’re being forced to leave even if you could’ve chosen somewhere closer. Even if you could’ve stayed home, given her the talks a younger sister needs from her idol. But, no, the way she sees it? You had a complete choice, even if you didn’t. She thinks you’re leaving on purpose, going far and over the oceans to get away from home, away from the responsibilities that come with her.

You want to explain it all to her—that it’s not about running away. Not about leaving her behind, escaping home. It’s about finding who you are, so you can be someone she’s proud of. Someone she can look at and say, ‘I want to be like her someday.’ But how do you explain that to a little sister who only sees an empty seat at the breakfast table? Who only sees the single plate of cereal in front of her, eating her morning meal alone every day?

So instead, you hug her tighter. You tell her you’ll write her letters, like a penpal you already know. Deep down you know you’ll never getting to mailing those, let alone writing them in the first place. She’ll spend days waiting for her first letter, only for it to never come. You tell her that the stars in the sky will spell her name if she looks hard enough.That you’ll be back before she even notices you’re gone. Before she notices she’s been able to sit shotgun a lot more now. Before she realizes that you’re making yourself more of a stranger by calling yourself a penpal. You lie, sure, a little. But a small white lie has never hurt anyone, right?

And maybe that’s the hardest part—not the leaving, but knowing that for a while, she’ll wonder if you ever really wanted to stay.