He’s been on family vacations with us. Sat at our dinner table more nights than I can count. Fallen asleep on my floor, my bed, my couch.
He’s been part of my life since I was eight years old.
And now —
He’s here.
Just seeing him makes the tightness in my chest loosen.
I can breathe again.
I’m not angry.
I don’t think I ever was.
I’m just — relieved.
I open the window.
He slides in like nothing’s changed. Glances around the room quickly, the way he always does — unconscious, like he’s confirming it’s still the same.
It always is.
He smirks.
“Hey, you.”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious?” I whisper. “I haven’t seen you in forever, and all I get is a hey?”
“Well,” he shrugs, like this is all a joke, “I also brought you a surprise.”
My heart stutters.
“What?”
He grins.
“It’s me. Now scoot over.”
• • •
My brain short-circuits.
He hasn’t slept over in a while.
My heart is beating so loud I’m convinced he can hear it.
I move anyway.
Because of course I do.
This probably means nothing to him.
Even if it means everything to me.
• • •
