Eternal Ephemerals

Fear

Drea sat on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by the familiar clutter of old notebooks, mismatched socks, and the random remnants of her teenage years. An open family photo album lay in front of her, its pages worn with time. Her fingers hovered over a faded photo, and she stared down at the image of her father and Aunt May, arms slung around each other, laughing like they shared the whole world between them.

They used to be so close. She had heard her grandmother say it a hundred times. Inseparable, she'd say, as if she were talking about another lifetime, a dream. Drea looked at the photo again, trying to reconcile the image of her father, grinning with carefree joy, with the man who now barely talked to his sister outside of obligatory family gatherings.

The difference was staggering. And it made her uneasy.

She flipped the page, her eyes settling on another photograph—her mother and her two sisters. They were younger, smiling, dressed in matching sundresses, their hair sunlit and carefree. Back then, her mom and her aunts had been inseparable too, or so Drea had been told. The way her mom described it, they were practically attached at the hip, sharing clothes, secrets, their lives. But now? Now her mom's voice carried a sarcastic edge when she talked about them. The conversations between the sisters were always tinged with something bitter—a kind of sharp humor that felt like criticism hiding beneath layers of politeness. They laughed at each other's parenting mistakes, poked fun at each other's partners, and rolled their eyes when the other wasn't looking.

Drea could never understand why, but every time she heard it, it felt like something was unraveling in front of her.

She sighed and set the album aside, glancing up at her little brother, Jamie, who was sprawled out on her bed, lost in his phone. He was only a year and a half younger than her, and for as long as she could remember, they'd been a team. They did everything together—late-night study sessions, binging their favorite shows, plotting how to survive family reunions. They shared the kind of closeness that didn't need explanation. A knowing glance could trigger a fit of laughter between them. A single text, a memory of some ridiculous inside joke, and they were laughing for hours.

But lately, something had been gnawing at her, a creeping fear she couldn't shake. Will it always be like this?

Her mind wandered back to her parents, to the subtle, almost invisible distance that had formed between them and their siblings. It was a gap that grew wider with each passing year, though no one ever talked about it. When had that happened? When had they stopped being each other's confidantes and started becoming people who merely tolerated each other's existence? Drea couldn't pinpoint the moment. Maybe it was marriage. Maybe it was kids. Maybe it was just life, pulling people apart like some slow but inevitable force of nature.

The thought of it terrified her.

She leaned back against the foot of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. What if the same thing happens to us?

"What's on your mind?" Jamie asked, glancing up from his phone, noticing her silence.

Drea hesitated, her throat tightening around the words. She wasn't sure how to bring it up. She didn't want to sound ridiculous or make it seem like she was overthinking. But the fear had been sitting in her chest for days, weeks even, and she didn't know how to let it go.

"Do you ever wonder if we'll still be this close when we're older?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jamie raised an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't we be?"

Drea shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. "I don't know... I've just been thinking. Look at Dad and Aunt May. Look at Mom and her sisters. They were so close when they were younger—best friends. But now? They barely talk outside of holidays and family stuff. And when they do, it's like they're not really talking, you know? It's all surface-level stuff. No one really cares."

She bit her lip, feeling the words tumble out faster than she could control. "What if that happens to us?"

Jamie blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Why would it? We're not like them."

"Yeah, but don't you think they probably thought the same thing when they were younger? They probably thought they'd always be close too. But life... happened. And now they're basically strangers."

Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the depth of her worry. The fear had been simmering for too long. She couldn't push it away anymore.

Jamie sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "I mean, people grow up, right? They get busy. They start their own lives, their own families. Maybe that's just... how it goes."

Drea shook her head. "I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to wake up one day and realize we barely know each other anymore. I don't want us to turn into people who only see each other on holidays and make fun of each other's lives. I don't want to lose this—us."

The weight of the words hit her hard as she said them. She thought of her father, the way he'd laugh sarcastically when someone mentioned Aunt May's new boyfriend, the dismissive tone he used when talking about her. The way her mom rolled her eyes at her sisters' choices, turning their mistakes into dinner-table jokes. It all felt so far removed from the closeness those old photographs promised. The warmth, the connection—it had all disappeared somewhere along the way, replaced by indifference. Was that just how life worked?

Jamie was quiet for a moment, clearly trying to think through her question, his brows furrowed in thought. "But... we're not them," he said finally. "I get that life gets complicated. I get that people change. But we're close now, and we've always had each other's backs. That's not going to change just because we get older, right?"

Drea wanted to believe him, but doubt had already sunk its claws into her heart. She had spent so long watching the distance between her parents and their siblings grow wider, their relationships more strained, that it was hard not to see it as inevitable. People grew up. They changed. And in the process, they drifted. Wasn't that just what happened?

"But what if it does?" she asked, her voice soft, almost fragile. "What if we do grow apart? What if we stop talking, stop being... us?"

Jamie sighed, leaning back against the bedframe. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to find the right words. "I don't know, D. I guess... I can't promise things will always be exactly like they are now. We're going to have our own lives someday. But that doesn't mean we'll stop caring about each other. It doesn't mean we'll stop being close."

Drea felt a lump form in her throat. She could hear the sincerity in his voice, but there was still that nagging fear. How many times had her parents thought the same thing? How many promises had they made to themselves that nothing would change, only to find that, slowly, everything had?

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

Jamie looked at her, his expression softening. "Yeah. I do. We've been through too much together to just... lose each other. I don't care how busy life gets. We'll figure it out."

Drea bit her lip, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that their bond was stronger than the forces that had pulled their parents apart from their siblings. But she couldn't shake the feeling that life had a way of changing things, no matter how much you wanted to hold on.

Still, she nodded. "Yeah," she whispered, though the doubt still clung to her words. "I hope you're right."

Jamie leaned over and nudged her gently. "We're different, D. We're always going to be close. You'll see."

She didn't know what the future would hold, didn't know if they would be able to keep this closeness as life moved forward. But for now, for this moment, they were still a team.