The first time I saw you, I was ten years old, and you were a tiny, shrieking tornado in a pink onesie. My best friend, had a twin sister. I groaned. Great. A girl.

That was the official story for years. You were the annoying shadow, always wanting to play, always breaking our LEGO spaceships. I’d roll my eyes at your brother. “Can’t we lock her in her room?”

But somewhere between your scraped knees and my stolen baseball cards, it changed. I started noticing when you weren’t trailing after us. The house felt too quiet.

Then came high school. You stopped being the twin sister and became… you. All at once. I’d catch myself staring at the way you bit your lip when you concentrated on homework, or how you’d laugh at your brothers dumb jokes. A strange, warm panic would settle in my chest.

I became the master of casual. Lingering in the kitchen when I knew you’d come down for a snack. Offering you a ride to school, playing it off like a favor to your brother. “Yeah, no problem. Saves your mom a trip.”

The hardest part is your brother. My best friend. He still see’s the little tornado. He ruffles your hair and calls you “squirt.” And I have to laugh along, all while my heart is doing something stupid and traitorous in my ribs.

He talks about guys who like you, asking me to help scare them off. I do it with a ferocity that surprises even me, but not for the reasons he thinks.

You looked at me yesterday, your eyes clear and knowing. “You’re always here,” you said, not a question, but a quiet observation.

I just shrugged, the words “Where else would I be?” stuck in my throat, too heavy and too true to ever say out loud.

So I stay. The best friend. The almost-brother. The guy in the background, holding a secret that feels as big as the sky, and just as impossible to grasp.