When you were a child, it always felt like your father was a man of shadows, a keeper of secrets, even those that didn’t belong to him. He would never utter your favorite color aloud. You knew it was just an arbitrary detail, a trivial matter in the grand scheme of life, but his refusal to share somehow made it monumental. Derek, however, wore his heart on his sleeve. From the moment you two met, he became the sun to your darkness—the light in a world you often perceived as gray.

Derek was a year older than me when we first crossed paths on the playground, a chaotic collection of swings, slides, and sturdy promises of resilience. At ten, you had learned to keep your head low, to avoid confrontation. When a group of kids had surrounded you, taunting with cruel laughter over your silence, Derek appeared as if summoned by some unspoken wish. He stepped between you and the others, his presence a barrier, his voice steady and strong.

He was there when your father couldn’t be, through the chaos of family dinners that devolved into fights and the suffocating silence that followed. During one particularly excruciating winter, after your father had given you an ultimatum best served cold, Derek came over and your two huddled together in your room, his warm presence a shield against the frost of familial judgment.

“It’s not your fault,” he told you that night, his voice low. “Don’t let him get in your head.”

Our friendship transformed seamlessly into something deeper as we entered adulthood. You confided in him about everything. There was always a part of you that felt a visceral need to escape. You had promised Derek you’d leave your old town behind and you did.

“Why did you follow me?” You asked him during one of your late-night talks months after you’d moved halfway across the country.

He smiled, an easy grin that felt like home. “You can’t run from the things that matter. I care about you, and I’m not letting you turn your back on everything we built together.”