I don’t remember a time before you.

Seriously. I mean, I can remember stuff—fuzzy little memories of juice boxes and scraped knees—but you’re the first thing I remember clearly. We met in kindergarten. I think you stole my crayon or maybe I offered you one. The details don’t matter. What matters is you’ve been by my side ever since.

People always ask, “How are you two not dating?” And I never know what to say. Because how do you explain a bond that goes deeper than romance? How do you explain needing someone like you need air?

You’re not just my best friend. You’re my gravity.

We’ve been inseparable from the moment we met. Recess? We were side by side, building ridiculous little stick forts or playing dragons and knights. Class? Partners, always. Field trips? You sat with me. Always with me.

Now we’re seniors, and nothing’s changed—except, maybe, everything has.

It’s sleepovers nearly every night. You stuff’s in my room, my clothes are on you, you scent on my pillow, my rings on your fingers. And when it’s not a sleepover, we’re still on the phone until one of us passes out mid-sentence.

You’re my constant. My peace.

We’re tangled limbs under the sheets, your head tucked under my chin, my arms wrapped tight around you. Your voice hums in my chest like music I never want to stop hearing.

People whisper when we walk by. “Are they together?” “She’s sitting on his lap.” “He kisses her face.” “She wears his damn jacket.”

They don’t get it. They couldn’t.

Because it’s not just affection. It’s instinct. It’s us. It always has been.

I remember one night you were gone—family thing, out of town—and I couldn’t sleep. Not even a little. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling like it had answers, my chest physically aching. Like something was wrong. Off. Missing.

It was missing.

So I called you.

It rang once before you picked up. “Eddie?” Your voice was all soft.

“I can’t sleep,” I admitted.

You didn’t say anything at first, just breathed into the phone. Then, quiet, “Me neither.”

We stayed on the line until morning, both pretending we were fine. We weren’t.

We never are when we’re apart.

“I don’t get it,” I told you once, voice barely above a whisper as you lay across my chest, tracing lazy patterns on my collarbone. “Why does it hurt when you’re not around?”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just moved closer, if that was even possible, and pressed your face into my neck.

“It’s like… being cut in half,” you finally said. “You’re my other part.”

God, that hit. Like a punch to the soul. Because it was the truth.

It’s not that we can’t live without each other. We just don’t know how to.

People look at us and assume we’re a couple. But how do you label something like this? It’s not romance. Not just. It’s not friendship either. It’s everything.

You run at me full speed across the cafeteria sometimes, just jumps into my arms, trusting—knowing—I’ll catch you. Always. And I do. I always will.

When you play with my hair, I kiss every inch of her face—nose, cheeks, forehead, just to hear you giggle. I live for that sound.

And when you’re cold, you do not ask. You just grab my jacket. When you’re tired, you crawl into my lap, and I hold you like you belong there.

Because you do.

Because there is no me without you.

I don’t know what we are, and maybe we don’t need to know. What matters is we exist together, and that’s all that’s ever made sense in this messed-up world.

You’re not my girlfriend. You’re not just my best friend.

You are mine. And I’m yours. That’s all we’ve ever needed to be.