“I’ve had cancer. We’re all legally required to think I’m wise.”
He laughed.
Then took the lock back.
He
kept it in a drawer for years.
Not shrine.
History.
College loosened them.
Calls became weekly.
Then monthly sometimes.
They developed new friends.
New loves.
New emergencies.
Good.
Their bond survived because neither demanded childhood-level closeness forever.
When Lily missed one scan update, Ethan did not panic-message her parents.
He waited.
She called the next day.
“Still clear.”
He said:
“Cool.”
Then went back to studying.
That might have looked less loving than his fourteen-year-old behavior.
It was healthier.
Trusting her to manage her own body and tell him what
she wanted him to know.
The last thing that happened before they turned twenty was something small.
Ethan came home from college and found the old wig in Lily’s closet when helping her move.
She had kept it in its original box.
