You are four when everyone else begins to notice.
You play with her older brother, while the widowed father and the estranged mother take 5 minutes to themselves. She sits alone on the mat next to you. You ask the younger girl to come and play with you, despite her brother's protests.
When you are six, and she is five, and your time is split between new school friends and her, you always choose her.
When you are ten and she is nine, and your mother takes you away to visit your uncle for the summer, you promise to write every day. You do, and she responds to each one. Her final reply is handed to you, slightly crumpled, after she tackles you into a hug when you return.
When you are thirteen, and she is twelve, and not invited to the party, you feel lonely. Her brother is a good friend, but she is your best friend, and you want her there.
When you are fourteen and she is thirteen, you are shoved into a closet with another girl, one who wears a sour expression, and kisses you roughly. You don't mind but it doesn't feel right.
When you are sixteen, and she is fifteen, and she meets the boy with a spring in his step so bright he may take off, you feel protective of her. Or is it something else.
When you are eighteen, and she is seventeen, and you have broken up with the sour faced girl, and you are saying goodbye before you leave for college, she kisses you on the cheek, as the light footed boy arrives to take her out. Her goodbye forgets to leave her mouth. Her brother pats you on the back. You don't know why.
When you are twenty and she is nineteen, and she doesn't come home for Christmas, you feel lost. Her brother still doesn't fill the gap left by her, even if you have lived with him for two years. You still don't know why it bothers you.
When you are twenty-one, and she is twenty, and she finally comes home at the same time as you, she hugs you before her brother. Her eyes sparkle. She glows with happiness. A bruise fades on her arm.
When you are twenty-two, and she is twenty-one, you take her out for her first legal drink. She downs it quickly, soon following it with another, and soon she is asleep on the bar counter, after telling you that the light footed boy was a jerk, and why can't all guys be like you and her brother. You sigh, pick her up, take her home and tuck her into bed.
When you are twenty-four, and she is twenty-three, you live on opposite sides of the country. You only see each other face to face at holidays. You took up the habit of writing to each other again, but only once a week now. Her letter arrives saying she is coming to visit, 24 hours before she arrives on your doorstep in the rain. She cries with happiness. She missed you. You can't get any words out before she kisses you. The next morning, you tell her brother. He says I knew it.
When you are twenty-six, and she is twenty-five, the widowed father, and the estranged mother sit side by side, holding hands which lie in a lap, and look at their children stood before them. Her brother stands beside you. You stand opposite her, and she opposite you. You both say I do. Finally.
