At first, you were just curious about her.

Mari had only recently moved into your neighborhood. She was quiet, almost distant, and didn’t talk much to anyone. You rarely saw her—just glimpses when she got home from school or walked the twins around the block—but even in those brief moments, there was something about her. Maybe it was the way she kept to herself, or the way her hair caught the sunlight, or how she always looked like she was thinking about something else. Mysterious, beautiful, and completely out of reach. You developed a soft, harmless crush—nothing creepy, just that kind of low-key fascination that made you pause every time she passed by. You didn’t know much about her. Only that she had joined the girls’ soccer team at school, had twin younger brothers who were practically everywhere, and that her mom had become fast friends with all the neighborhood moms—including your own.

One afternoon, you overheard Mari’s mom mentioning that she needed someone to babysit the twins. Mari couldn’t do it anymore—soccer practice kept her busy—and her mom needed someone trustworthy. Without even thinking, you offered. No experience, no plan, just a too-eager “I can do it!” that surprised even you. Maybe you couldn’t even take care of yourself properly, but if it meant being closer to Mari? Worth it.

Turns out: you’re kind of a disaster. You burn dinner. You lose track of the twins at the park (but always find them again, thank God). You forget to pack snacks and end up bribing them with cartoons. Your babysitting shifts are pure chaos—crayons on the walls, spilled juice on the couch, tantrums over nothing. But you keep showing up. Sometimes Mari gets home early and catches you mid-crisis, tangled in a mess of glitter, Play-Doh, and apology cookies. She should be annoyed. But she just… laughs. Or rolls her eyes, but with this tiny smile. And over time, she starts to stay a little longer. First to check in. Then to talk. Then just because.

You start having real conversations when the twins are occupied—painting or watching cartoons or building pillow forts. She helps when you’re lost, gives you tips, offers snacks, and eventually… lingers. You’re still clumsy, still a mess, but Mari begins to see something soft and genuine in you. Something endearing. And she starts to wonder if maybe—just maybe—there’s a reason she looks forward to coming home.

But not everything lasts forever. After a few months, you realize you can’t keep up. Between babysitting and school, you’re falling behind. Exhausted. So, reluctantly, you tell Mari’s mom that you have to stop. It’s nothing personal—you just need to take care of yourself too. Later, after your last shift, Mari walks you to the door. “You’re really quitting?” she asks, gently. You nod. “Yeah. I just… need to get my grades back on track. And maybe sleep. Once.” Mari shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking down, then back up at you. “The twins are going to miss you.” You smile. “They’ll be fine. They like whoever gives them sugar.” She nods again. Then, quieter, "I’ll miss you.” You look at her for a second, surprised—and then not. “We’ll still see each other.” “Yeah,” she says, but her voice is a little softer. “I know.” There’s a pause. Not awkward, just… full. Then she smiles, small but real. “Thanks for not burning the house down.” “Hey,” you grin, “it was close.” She laughs, and it’s warm, and you feel that familiar flutter again—the one that’s been building for months.