If there was one thing Kristina excelled at more than imagination, leadership, and protecting me, it was turning a perfectly normal day into absolute chaos—with confidence.
This particular day started with her waking me up far earlier than any child should reasonably be awake. She stood at the edge of my bed, hands on her hips, staring at me like a drill sergeant.
"Wake up," she said.
I groaned and rolled over. "Why?"
"Because today," she announced, "is Operation: Ultimate Fun."
That should've been my first warning.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "What does that mean?"
"It means," she said, leaning in dramatically, "no rules. No boredom. And absolutely no tattling."
I blinked. "Isn't that… illegal?"
She shrugged. "Only if we get caught."
The plan—if you could even call it that—was to create the perfect day. Kristina claimed she had calculated everything: games, snacks, timing, even backup plans. I wasn't convinced. Her "calculations" usually involved guessing and confidence.
The first activity was breakfast. Or more accurately, Kristina's version of breakfast.
She poured cereal into a bowl. Then more cereal. Then decided that wasn't enough and added a second kind of cereal "for flavor." Then she poured milk—too much milk—until it nearly overflowed.
She stared at it. "Hmm."
Then she added sugar.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because happiness," she said simply.
She slid the bowl toward me. "Eat."
I took one bite and immediately regretted every life decision I had ever made. It was soggy, crunchy, sweet, and somehow salty all at once.
"This is terrible," I said.
Kristina smiled proudly. "You're welcome."
Next came games. She declared the living room a battlefield, the couch a fortress, and the floor "lava"—which conveniently only applied to me.
"Why can you walk on the lava?" I asked as I hopped desperately from pillow to pillow.
"Because I'm immune," she said. "Leadership perk."
At one point, I slipped and fell onto the carpet.
"You're dead," she said calmly.
"I'm not dead," I argued.
She crossed her arms. "Dramatically dead."
I lay there anyway, groaning like a fallen hero. She sighed, annoyed. "Fine. You're only mostly dead."
Then came the prank phase.
Kristina decided it would be hilarious to hide behind doors and jump out at me. The first time, I screamed. The second time, I screamed louder. The third time, I screamed so loud I scared her.
She clutched her chest. "Why would you do that?!"
"You jumped out at me!"
"Yes, but I wasn't ready!"
We both laughed so hard we had to sit down.
Later, she convinced me to help her "redecorate" my room. Her idea of decorating involved moving everything into a giant pile in the middle of the floor and calling it "modern."
I tripped over my own shoes. "This is a mess."
She tilted her head. "It's abstract."
At some point, hunger struck again. I made the mistake—the fatal mistake—of asking, "Can I have the rest of your food?"
Kristina froze.
Slowly, she turned toward me.
"…You always do this."
I smiled innocently.
She stared at her plate, sighed deeply, then shoved it toward me. "FINE. TAKE IT. I DIDN'T EVEN WANT IT."
"You were eating it."
"NOT ANYMORE."
I ate it anyway. It was delicious.
The peak of the chaos came when she decided we should put on a show. A full performance. For no audience.
She forced me to wear a towel as a cape. "You're the sidekick."
"Why can't I be the hero?"
"Because," she said, tying it tightly, "heroes need confidence. You trip over air."
The show involved dramatic poses, fake accents, and Kristina yelling stage directions mid-performance.
"No, no, no! Say it like you mean it!"
"I AM saying it like I mean it!"
"Mean it louder!"
By the end, we were both out of breath, laughing uncontrollably, collapsing onto the floor like we'd just completed the greatest performance in history.
Kristina stared at the ceiling. "We're amazing."
"We are," I agreed.
The day ended with us sitting quietly, exhausted from laughter. The house was a mess. Our plans had failed. Nothing went how she intended.
And yet—it was perfect.
Kristina glanced at me. "Best day ever?"
I nodded. "Best day ever."
She smirked. "Told you Operation: Ultimate Fun would work."
I didn't argue.
Because even when everything went wrong, with Kristina beside me, it always somehow went right.