We all sat around the television watching reruns ofPretty Little Liars. Usually whenever I did this with my brothers—be it watchingTwilight,Aquamarine, or any girly film—they’d poke fun at me and suggest we watchTransformersor something. But Wynter never once complained. He never once showed any ounce of disapproval. He was just happy his sisters were happy. He just enjoyed whatever they did.
He was seated at the table behind us all, having cleared out a section of the kitchen counter as he worked on some of his holiday homework. The scene in front of him was scattered with papers and mathematical instruments—an overwhelming amount of work for a 10th grader.
“I wish I was like Alison DiLaurentis…” Bae sighed, flopping down on the carpet as she blew a strand away from her face.
“Youwantto go missing?” Beck deadpanned in confusion. “Odd aspiration there, Bae Bee.”
“No, but I think it’s pretty cool when people want to remember you. And never forget.” Bae hummed. “Also, stop calling me that. I’ll tell Dad.”
“Oh, come on, we must bring back that iconic nickname—Bae Bee!” Jiwon teased, and she and Beck made simultaneous buzzing sounds. I chuckled.
“You guys never take me seriously. The only person who ever did was—” Bae grumbled, then glanced at the credenza that held all the photographs of their mother. She swallowed her words like bitter coffee.
There was a beat of silence, and I watched the shift in Beck’s eyes—contorting from pained to empathetic. She tapped her lap, and Bae hopped on as her older sister wrapped her arms around her frame. A rare sign of affection from her—she was never the touchy type.
“Hey,” Beck cooed. “I’m sorry. We were only teasing.”
“Yeah, Bae-Bee, don’t take it to heart.” Jiwon smiled, and Bae tossed a pillow at her.
“Come on, let us have this!”
“Fine. It’s not as bad as ‘Baen of our existence’ was.” Bae accepted her fate. Even still, Beck didn’t let go of her. She never did.
I stood up and took my plate to the kitchen to wash it—a pitiful excuse to watch Wynter from the corner of my eye in all his quiet comfort. I scrubbed the plate a thousand times as he ran around the frames of my mind. He was gorgeous. Always has been and always will be.
“Leave them,” he spoke plainly, without glancing up.
“What?”
“The dishes. You guys made the food; I’ll wash them.” He persisted, taking his pencil between his pillowy lips, brows furrowing in concentration before circling the right answer.
“Always just, aren’t you?” I teased, and he smiled, shaking his head.
“Mostly,” he responded. “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Your sisters are lucky to have you. You know that, right?” I reminded him, in case he didn’t know.
“I would argue it’s quite the contrary,” he said, finally glancing up at me. “I’m lucky to have them.”
“I see.” I smiled, glancing down. “What are you working on?”
“Parallel lines,” he explained, and I walked around the table to glimpse the page. “See—parallel lines are lines that are close but under no circumstances do they ever intersect. Never meet. Never touch.”
“It makes you wonder,” I contemplated. “What’s the point of being in such close proximity if they can never actually merge together?”
“Maybe sometimes justbeingis enough,” he proposed, leaning back. “Maybe they just want to be next to each other. I don’t know.”
“That’s kind of like asymptotes in calculus,” I recalled. “You’re in AP, right?”
“Was there any other option?” he mused, then chuckled. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Well, yeah. Asymptotes are lines that a curve approaches but never actually touches, no matter how far it goes. They represent boundaries that are infinitely close yet never intersect.” I explained, taking a seat beside him at the table.
“Someone could compose poetry out of these math terms. Maybe make it more interesting.” He suggested.
“Go ahead, Shakespeare. Blow me away,” I challenged.
“They were like asymptotes—drawn toward each other by some invisible force, yet bound by a fate that kept them apart. No matter how close they came, how much they curved toward one another, they would never truly meet. Their connection was a line approaching infinity—always almost, but never quite. A love defined by the ache of what could never be.” He recited dramatically, and I laughed, clapping my hands.
