Middle school arrived like a wave that caught me off guard — everything seemed louder, faster, and more complicated. The hallways filled with new faces, whispered rumors, and the awkward dance of trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. Ethan was going through it too, though he never let on. His loud jokes sometimes gave way to silences that made me wonder what was really going on inside his head.
He'd grown taller, his voice cracking just like mine, and his easy confidence sometimes wavered when no one was looking. The teasing between us — once sharp and playful — started to carry a new weight. When he called me "Socks," it wasn't just to get a reaction anymore. His grin was softer, and there was a spark in his eyes that made me want to laugh instead of snap back.
Our secret club under the oak tree became a sanctuary from all the confusion. We shared new things — our worries about fitting in, the awkwardness of crushes we didn't dare name, and dreams that felt both far away and impossibly close. He would lean a little closer when telling a story, and I caught myself hoping he wouldn't pull away.
One afternoon, I tripped carrying a stack of books down the stairs, and before I could even brace for the fall, Ethan's hand was there, steadying me. His fingers brushed mine for a second longer than necessary, and heat rose to my cheeks. He gave me that mischievous smile of his, but I knew — just knew — this moment was different.
Jamie, ever the teasing older brother, noticed too. He smirked and said, "Looks like you two have some kind of secret." Ethan rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. For once, I didn't want him to.
Growing up wasn't just about the changes everyone could see — it was about the quiet, hidden shifts between two people who had known each other all their lives but were suddenly discovering something new, something fragile.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe Ethan was feeling it too.