I hate thinking about the way it ended, but sometimes I think about the way it began: with me walking through the door of someone else's house without knocking.

This has always been a typical move of mine, wandering latchkey kid that I was in my early years. But in every other way, the beginning was an atypical day.

When I let myself go there, I watch it in my head like a movie. I let it feel like it's happening now instead of thirteen years ago, where the real moment belongs, where fifteen-year-old me is turning the doorknob on a house I've burst into hundreds of times before. I find no resistance, because by my sophomore year of high school⁠—when this memory takes place⁠—my open invitation into the Cooper-Kim's home is implied.

My best friend, Adam Kim, is somewhere in here, probably still sweaty and gross from cross-country practice. At least I went home and showered.

I greet Adam's three rescue dogs, Gravy, Pop-Tart, and Dave, my ears perking at the dulcet tones of a video game played at full volume, two voices rumbling below it. The dogs trail me as I make my way to the den, the tags on their collars jingling. It's a sound as familiar as my own heartbeat.

Adam's house is warm and sun-filled, often noisy, with a lingering, faint citrus scent. The first time I walked in, something unraveled in my chest; it felt like home, not a place where two people lived with sometimes intertwining lives. My house is quiet and often empty, just as it was all those years between when my mom left when I was three years old and now.

The times my dad and I do sync up are great; he asks tons of questions and tells me what a great kid I am, how easy I've been, how proud he is of my grades and the extracurriculars that keep me busy. He listens to every story I can get out of my mouth, his phone facedown on the dining room table while it buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. Eventually the phone wins, and I'm left craving more time.

It's why I've made a habit of making other people's houses my home, and why I love the Cooper-Kims' house best.

In this memory, I'm nearly to the den, wondering who Adam has over. I sincerely hope it isn't Jared; I keep telling Adam what a dick he is.

With the power of hindsight, I know what's going to happen seconds before it does, so I always hold my breath here⁠—

Right when I turn the corner and run face-first into a broad chest. It has so little padding it makes my teeth rattle.

"Whoa," a voice breathes above me, stirring the hairs at my temple. Warm, strong hands grip my arms to keep my upright.

I look up...and up, into a face fifteen-year-old me has never seen before.

Whoever this is, he's beautiful. He's tall (obviously) and broad-shouldered, with limbs he hasn't grown into. In this moment, I don't know that he'll fill out in a painfully attractive way⁠—his chest will broaden to become the perfect pillow for my head. His thighs will grow just shy of thick, mouth-wateringly curved with muscle, the perfect perch for me when I sit in his lap.

But the eyes I'm looking into won't change. They'll stay that hypnotic mix of caramel and gold, rimmed in deep coffee brown and framed by sooty lashes and inky eyebrows that match the hair on his head. They'll continue to catch mine the way they are in this movie moment⁠—like a latch hooking me, then locking us into place.

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