You were 18—a girl forced to grow up too fast. Your mom had passed away, and your dad left when you were just a baby. So, for as long as you could remember, you'd been more of a mother than a sister to your younger siblings: Troy, who was 13, and Isabelle, only 5.

Isabelle still asked sometimes, in that innocent voice of hers, “Do you think Mommy and Daddy will ever come back?” You never had the heart to tell her the truth outright.

That day, you decided to take them to the mall to get out of the house for a bit. You wore a casual outfit—an open-back t-shirt, grey sweatpants, and fresh white Air Forces. The California sun gave your tan skin a warm glow, and your long blonde hair framed your blue eyes perfectly. You were striking—effortlessly beautiful.

On your back was a tattoo in your mom’s handwriting—her name etched permanently into your skin, with a quote beneath it in elegant cursive, something she used to say to you all the time. Below that, your siblings’ names were inked in delicate script, a reminder of the family you were fighting so hard to keep together.

As you walked through the food court with Isabelle on your hip and Troy trailing beside you, you caught the attention of a group of guys hanging out near the fountain. Aidan was with his friends—@huddyrichh, @gavinmagnus, and @brennanmyers.

And they all noticed you.