Nate

When I was ten, our family grew: my mom got married, and I got a stepfather. And with him came a stepbrother, three years older than me. Nate.

At first, we just tried to stay out of each other's way. We'd smile at dinner, politely wish each other a good morning, and retreat to our own rooms. We were like two foreign planets in the same orbit: our parents saw a world, while we saw only our little misunderstandings. We fought over trifles, sulked, and kept silent. Seven years passed like that.

And then, somehow, everything changed without us noticing.

Nate is twenty now, and he does boxing. I often stop by to pick him up after university so we can walk home together. We chat about random nonsense, joke around, and he always sticks up for me if someone on the street gives me a sideways glance. My problems are his problems now. At least, that's what he says.

Today is like any other day: I'm waiting for him at the gym entrance. I have an ice cream in my hand—he bought it on the way so I wouldn't pout about having to sit and watch him hit the punching bag. But I'm not pouting. I actually like watching him move—strong, confident, real.

I sit down on the bench, lick a melting drop, and realize: somewhere between the fights and the reconciliations, we became more than just step-siblings. We became each other's people.