𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙬𝙤

"Long time no see, Cousin Finn," the voice said like a breeze blowing through an old, open window—familiar, warm, and carrying the scent of something I hadn't let myself feel in years. Nostalgia, maybe. Or forgiveness.

I turned, heart already tripping over itself before my eyes caught up. There they stood, weaving through the crowded room with a calm sort of presence, like they belonged here—as if time hadn't fractured us into strangers. Their smile hadn't changed. It was still crooked on the left side and lit from behind the eyes, the same way it had when we used to run barefoot across the Cooper orchard, our laughter echoing into the pink-gold dusk.

But now... they were different too.

Their hair was trimmed short, stylish in a quiet, mature way that made them look older than I remembered. Not older in the sense of age, but lived-in. Wiser. The kind of change you only get from heartbreak or healing. Maybe both. Their shoulders held a new kind of strength, but their eyes—their eyes still carried the spark of mischief we used to blame for half the trouble we caused.

Behind them, shadows of the past came walking in. Familiar footsteps echoed into the space around us, as more people entered—people I hadn't thought about in years. People I used to know like the back of my hand. An old friend who once played guitar on our porch at 2 a.m., an aunt whose stories made us cry from laughing, even a boy I swore I'd marry at age seven. All of them, here, in one place. Alive in memory—and now, somehow, in the present again.

A low hum buzzed around the room, the sound of reunion and reconnection. But for a moment, it all faded into silence. Just me. Just them.

We didn't rush. We just stood there, both of us trying not to break under the weight of the time that had passed.

Then the hug came.

It wasn't just any hug. It was the kind you don't realize you've needed until it's already happening. The kind that tries to stitch closed years of distance with nothing but warmth and human touch. I felt their arms wrap around me, firm and familiar, and I didn't let go for a while.

Laughter came next. Not the polite kind. Real laughter—the kind that unearths buried summers and shared secrets. We stood there, speaking half in sentences, half in looks that only people with a shared past understand. We spoke of long-gone pets and that one disastrous family trip to Yosemite. We teased each other like we were still fifteen, with no idea how fragile time could be.

And then came the others. More voices. More embraces. People I'd been afraid to reach out to. People I thought might never come back. And yet, here they were. Not just present—but open. Willing to bridge the gap that grief, silence, or stubbornness had carved between us.

I found myself glancing at each face in the room, taking them in like I was afraid they'd vanish again if I blinked too long. Each one carried stories, like constellations across time. And somehow, in the tangled mess of memory and healing, we were rewriting the narrative. Not forgetting the pain, but no longer being defined by it.

The night swelled around us—music playing softly in the background, footsteps brushing against hardwood floors, glasses clinking, and the occasional burst of unfiltered laughter. I realized, suddenly, that this gathering wasn't just a reunion. It was a resurrection.

We weren't here to mourn what was lost. We were here to find each other again.

And I think that's what scared me the most. How easy it was to fall back in. How simple it was to rediscover the rhythm of these people, to recognize the way my heart used to beat around them.

As the night stretched on, stars began blinking through the windows, and someone lit the fire pit outside. I watched my cousin lean back, smiling as they told a story I already knew by heart, their voice animated, eyes bright with that old spark. And for a moment—I let myself believe that maybe not everything had to stay broken.