I am six years old when I decide that Aiden is my favorite person in the world.
It isn't because he shares his candy with me (though sometimes he does) or because he always lets me choose which cartoon we'll watch. It's because when I fall down and scrape my knee, he doesn't laugh like the other kids. He sits down beside me, tiny and serious, and says, "If you cry, I'll cry too."
So I stop crying. Just like that.
We live next door to each other our mothers are sisters and every afternoon, when the sun starts melting into orange, we sit on the same little step between our houses and talk about the most unimportant things. He tells me that one day, he'll be a superhero. I tell him that I'll be the one who draws his costume.
We're both six, and the world is still small enough to fit inside our laughter.
But then one morning, my mother says something that makes the air feel strange.Aiden's family is moving away a big city, new job, new school.I don't really understand what moving away means until I see the boxes.Until I see Aiden's toy cars neatly packed, his books gone from the shelf.
That day, he gives me his favorite marble a blue one that shines when the light hits it."It's magic," he whispers. "If you miss me, just hold it, and I'll know."
I don't know if he's joking, but I believe him anyway. Because I'm six, and belief comes easy when your heart is small and full.
When he leaves, I run after the car until my legs hurt. He waves through the window, smiling wide, and I think maybe this isn't goodbye — maybe it's just see you later.
But "later" becomes a long, quiet word.
Days turn into months. I write him letters crooked handwriting, too many hearts and too many words. Mom helps me send them."Dear Aiden," I begin every time, "I miss you. I hope your school is fun. Do you still have my marble?"
The first time, I wait by the mailbox for days, certain that he'll write back.The second time, I tell myself maybe he's just busy.By the fifth letter, I stop expecting anything at all.
Still, I write.
When I grow older, the words change. The hearts fade from the page, replaced with stories about my days my friends, my school, the smell of the rain.I start sending emails too, little messages written late at night when the house is quiet and I can almost hear his laugh echoing from the past.
Hey Aiden, I saw a boy today who looked like you. For a second, I thought you came back.Hey Aiden, remember when you told me you'd cry if I cried? Guess what, I cried today.
But no reply ever comes.
Sometimes I wonder if the letters ever reached him. Maybe they got lost somewhere between the towns, tucked away in some forgotten drawer. Or maybe he read them and just didn't know what to say.
Years pass, and my childhood turns into something I fold and hide between the pages of my notebooks. But even now, when I open my email, I still glance at the inbox half-hoping, half-embarrassed.
Then one morning, something different happens.
I'm sitting at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, when my phone buzzes. It's an email — not from Aiden, of course. It's from a college in the city.
"Congratulations! You've been accepted into Crestwood University."
Crestwood. The same city where Aiden lives.
My hands tremble as I read it again, the words blurring together. Suddenly, it feels like all those years of waiting, all those unsent feelings, have led me here.
That night, I dig out the little box under my bed. Inside it are the letters I never sent, the ones that always came back unanswered — and the blue marble he gave me. It still glows faintly when the light hits it.
I hold it in my palm, whispering softly,"I'm coming, Aiden."