every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and yours begins with her: the girl with steel spine and sunshine smile and a hurricane heart. it begins when she says your name and it sounds like it was always meant for you. it unravels and unspools and suddenly the mark burns on the back of your hands: best friends.

a couple of weeks pass and you make a home out of a bay window. a couple of months pass and you make a home out of each other. a couple of years pass and she is every crevice, every corner of home you keep coming back to. a couple of years pass and her name and her soul and the soft lilt of her voice are stamped like a map on the back of your hand: sister.

they say it ends in middle school. they say that a friendship such as yours isn’t built to last. but the girl carved on the back of your hand never really knew how to listen to what other people say. so she stays.

every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. and this story is ours, she says, her fingers tracing the lines stretched across your knuckles, finding their way home. ours, ours, ours.

*and it begins and ends with us.