There’s something freeing about having known him my whole life. He’s seen me at every stage—a skinned-kneed five-year-old, pimple-faced at fourteen, stumbling drunk at twenty-one. He’s seen me on the beach, getting knocked down by waves and brushing sand out of my hair. He’s seen me ten seconds after rolling out of bed, bleary-eyed and wearing hand-me-down sweatpants. I don’t need to hide a single aspect of myself from him. He’s already seen it all. And yet he’s still here, looking at me like I’m the center of his universe.
