I still remember the first time I saw him — Ethan.
He wasn't supposed to be part of our world. Just some kid who showed up at our doorstep one afternoon, clutching his backpack like he was about to camp out forever. My brother, Jamie, had met him at school, and somehow Ethan had slipped into our family like he was meant to be here all along.
Ethan was two years older than me, but at that age, two years might as well have been ten. He was tall, confident, the kind of boy who filled every room he walked into. Jamie looked up to him like he was the coolest thing ever, and honestly, it was easy to see why.
At first, I just tagged along — the little sister who tried to keep up with their endless games and jokes. Ethan teased me relentlessly, calling me names like "Socks" because I always wore mismatched ones, or hiding my favorite snacks just to watch me hunt for them. But even when he was a troublemaker, there was a kindness beneath it all.
We spent countless afternoons outside, running through the yard or racing our bikes down the street until the sun dipped below the horizon. Ethan taught me how to skateboard — though my scraped knees told the story of how patient he really was. And whenever I got scared, especially after he told those ridiculous ghost stories, he'd be the one to make me laugh until I forgot.
He fit into our family like a missing puzzle piece — loud, wild, and full of life. But more than that, he made our small world bigger and brighter. Looking back, I didn't know then how important those days were. How those moments would become the foundation for everything that came next.