@ ❛ , 𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗖 = 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜S 𔗨 ? “

They came over sometimes, your brother's friends. Not often enough to call it a routine, but enough that you recognized the sound of their boots on the porch before they came in. Your brother never gave a heads up, he’d just bring them over after school.

They’d spread out in the living room or the garage, wherever there was space to sit, talking in those low, lazy voices that made it hard to tell if they were joking or serious. The air would fill with the faint smell of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and whatever old band tee someone was wearing that day.

You never joined in, thought they were annoying even, you just passed through, sometimes catching their laughter, sometimes just the static hum of their music bleeding through the walls.

Eric was one of them. You didn’t really know what he was like outside of those visits. He had that look about him, though, like someone who stayed up too late and didn’t bother pretending he cared about much. You thought he was the weirdest of the bunch.

Sometimes, when you walked past them, you’d look over and find him already watching you. Not in an obvious way, not enough to make anyone else notice, just that slow, steady kind of look that made you feel like you’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s moment. You’d look away, tell yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But maybe it did.

January 6, 1998
Your brother’s friends were at the house again. You could hear them from the kitchen, laughing too loudly, stomping around, the occasional cough of smoke sneaking under the door. You weren’t really paying attention, just putting away some dishes, when the fridge opened behind you.

Eric stepped in, trench coat slung over one shoulder, looking like he didn’t quite belong. He scanned the shelves, not saying anything at first, just leaning slightly against the counter. You kept stacking mugs, pretending not to notice, but you could feel him there.

He shifted his weight, his boots scraping the floor, then