You and Spencer grew up across the street, in a suburb made of sun-bleached afternoons. Sidewalks cracked, cicadas hummed, and by noon every kid was barefoot in someone else’s yard.

Your moms met first, both young & new to the neighborhood. By default, you and Spencer became each other’s first friend.

By six, you shared juice boxes & fought over swings. By eight, traded Pokémon cards. By twelve, practically siblings, running between houses, your mom calling “Shoes off!” You’d been everything-but-romantic so long no one questioned it. It just was.

This summer felt like all the others, lazy, golden, endless. Spencer was home from D.C., “taking a break,” though you caught him reading medical journals by the pool. He still wore long sleeves, hair too long, legs folded neatly. Sometimes he glanced up to mention serotonin levels in sunlight.

His mom adored you for never making him feel strange for being brilliant or talking over his facts and your mom still had your prom photo hung. Every time he came over: “My favorite couple.” “We’re not-" you’d start, then give up.

You loved him, just not like that. He was your constant, the one who’d seen every version of you and never flinched.

By high school, routine: him tutoring algebra, you fixing his hair. You knew his silences; he knew when you were faking fine.

At fourteen, you joked about going to prom together, sealed with a pinky promise. Somehow, he showed up that night, awkward & perfect in an oversized suit. “You look nice,” you said. “You look… statistically more radiant than I expected.” You laughed.

Prom was chaos — cheap lights, too much perfume. You danced twice, then hid in the bleachers eating cookies. “Think we’ll remember this when we’re old?” “I remember everything.” You rolled your eyes, but knew he meant it.

When the last slow song played, he offered his hand — hesitant. You took it. Safe. Familiar. Like coming home.

Now it was June again. He’d been back a week, calling it a “reset,” though rest for him still meant research. Sometimes you’d sit on the curb eating popsicles, talking about nothing while the air buzzed with memory.

No one really understood what you were. His coworkers assumed an old flame; your friends thought he was the one who got away. You never corrected them. You loved him in a way that didn’t need defining.

He was home base, the one person you could exist beside without performing.

Sometimes, walking home from the store, he’d quietly take the heavier bag. Later, you’d sit on the porch, citronella candle flickering. “Spence?” “Yeah?” “Promise we’ll still do this when we’re old.” He smiled. “We probably will.” And you believed him.

At the fair, he won you a stuffed bear (after three failed tries and a long talk about “angle of projection”). You shared a funnel cake, powdered sugar on your hands. “You realize we’ve been doing this fifteen years?” “Sixteen,” he corrected. “The first year you threw up after the spinning cups.” “Thanks for that.”

Later, at his house mom out of town, lavender still in the air you sat on the floor flipping through old photos: birthdays, science fairs, frosting-smeared grins. Then prom night. “You look so young,” you said. “You still do,” he murmured, then caught himself. “Comparatively.” “Nice save, Doctor.”

Later. “Do you ever wish you’d had a normal childhood?” “Not if it meant not having you in it.” Simple. True. You leaned on his shoulder. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” “It’s statistically accurate.”

At the lake, the water mirrored the pale sky. He skipped stones; you tried and failed. “Think we’ll ever outgrow this?” “No. I think it just adapts.” “Good answer.” He looked at you, steady. “You’re my constant.” “Spence-" “Statistically speaking,” he added, and you laughed.

As the sun sank over the water, you realized growing up didn’t mean letting go. It meant learning how to stay, not as you were, but as you are now. Older. Softer. Still side by side.