nights like this, jean kirstein

1. where we belong

"Pool House" by the Backseat Lovers plays loudly from the radio in your Jeep Wrangler as you drive down ward memorial boulevard with all of the windows down and two packs of vodka seltzers on the floor of the passenger side.

The familiar California breeze hits your cheeks and the salty smell of the Pacific coast calms your nerves. Palm trees sway in the distance, and to your left waves shimmer under the September sun as Henley Gate welcomes you.

Everywhere you look on the campus of UC Santa Barbara people are buzzing around, an array of different words are spoken at once and a thousand different voices share conversation.

Sophomore year of college is on the rise, the hustle and bustle of move-in weekend never being something to mess around with and this year was no different then the last. . . people of all sorts riding bikes to their next destination, saying goodbye to their parents, and everything else under the sun.

Here, it didn't matter where you came from whether it was across the country or from Europe, or the highschool drama you were the center of. You could be whoever you wanted to be.

You have no plan, no guide on how to do things right. . . but you knew that this is where you had to be.

Your older sister Cassie, formerly a junior here, passed away the summer before your senior year of highschool.

This left a dent in your world, and you knew that things would never be the same despite the path of better things in your wake.

She was always there for you, to prepare you for the worst and teach you another lesson you would never forget. She left you a video for your first night away from home, telling you that "all you have to do is endure and survive, because no matter what there are people that you'll fit in with.' and her words lingered in your head like the worst hangover of your life

Passing her memorial tree near the lagoon hit the hardest, but you did it no matter what.

Seeing her picture, the flowers scattered and the ones that grew, and the cards from friends that were laid out always caused your heart to ache. There were even a few of the remains of candles from her vigil so long ago.

People who you had no idea existed would come up to you and hug you, saying how sorry they were for 'what happened.' and that your sister was one of the best things that happened to this world. They weren't wrong, She was almost a saint.

There was no avoiding it.

Your parents are kind of couple people envied—college sweethearts, the ones who could finish each other's sentences without it feeling corny.

Holidays were full of inside jokes, late-night wine, and the kind of love that felt like a steady hum in the background of everything.

But after Cassie died, something cracked. Not all at once, but slowly, like fault lines spidering through glass. They didn't scream at each other, not at first. It was worse—silences stretching across dinner tables, quiet blame sitting between them like an extra chair.

They tried counseling.

They still go, to your knowledge, but now it's more like maintenance on a car that keeps breaking down no matter how many parts get replaced.

There's love there, but it's warped now—soured by grief, stretched thin by all the things they don't say. They're almost themselves again, laughing in the kitchen like nothing ever happened. Other days, it feels like the whole house might collapse under the weight of pretending.

Your brother is almost 13 years older than you.

Losing one of his little sisters nearly killed him—it hollowed him out in a way you don't talk about, not even now.