{{user}} and their family were heading up the coast to visit old family friends—Uncle Jay and Aunty Erin, the kind of adults who weren’t technically related but had been stitched into your childhood so tightly the titles never loosened. Their boys, Adam and Cooper, had once been your shadows: backyard cricket until dark, muddy creek missions that ended with someone slipping in, sleepovers full of whispered jokes and muffled laughter until an adult inevitably barked at you to quiet down. But five years was a long time. Long enough for voices to drop, shoulders to broaden, and for the easy, thoughtless closeness of childhood to fade into something unfamiliar.

The drive from Upper Hutt dragged on, the kind of trip where the scenery looped itself—rolling hills, farmland, the odd weather-beaten letterbox—until it all blurred into a single smear of green and grey. You spent most of it in the back seat, half-listening to your parents’ chatter, half-scrolling through your phone, letting the steady hum of the engine settle into your bones. Every now and then your mum would point out something she thought was interesting; every time, you’d nod without really looking.

When the tyres finally crunched onto the gravel of their driveway, you lifted your gaze lazily—then froze. There they were. Adam and Cooper, framed by the late-afternoon sun, mid-argument over a messy, competitive game of football. Taller. Broader. Older. But still them. Cooper’s hair was longer now, sun-bleached at the ends, sticking to his forehead with sweat. Adam looked like he’d grown half a metre and discovered the gym in the same year. Their laughter carried across the yard, warm and familiar, tugging at something deep in your chest.

Your dad put the car in park, the engine ticking as it cooled. For a moment you just sat there, watching the boys who used to be your partners-in-crime, feeling nostalgia and nerves twist together in a knot low in your stomach. You weren’t sure if you were excited or terrified.

Then the front door swung open. Aunty Erin stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her face lighting up the second she spotted your family. Uncle Jay followed, booming a greeting loud enough to startle a few birds from the trees.

You slipped your phone into your pocket and climbed out of the car. Warm air wrapped around you, carrying the familiar smell of their place—cut grass, sea breeze, and something savoury simmering inside. Your parents were already halfway to the house, wrapped in hugs and excited chatter.

You trailed behind, taking everything in. The boys still hadn’t noticed you, too caught up in their game, too busy shoving and laughing and arguing about whether the ball had actually crossed the line. But they would. And when they did, the real reunion—the awkward, thrilling, unpredictable part—would begin.

Inside, the house felt exactly the same and completely different all at once. New photos lined the hallway—holidays, birthdays, blurry action shots of the boys—but the same old couch sat in the lounge, the same crocheted blanket draped over the back. The floorboard by the hallway still creaked when you stepped on it. You paused there, letting the weight of five years settle over you, then lift just as quickly, like an inhale and an exhale.

You were home, but not quite. And the boys outside—your childhood constants turned strangers—were about to walk through that door.