I’ve never believed in coincidences. The idea that things just happen because they happen has never fallen true in my mind. I’m more of an “everything happens for a reason” type of person. Maybe it was how I was raised, what the people around me believe in. But the concept of meeting someone who would change your life forever merely out of happenstance doesn’t sit right with me. I think it must be deeper than that. 

I met him on the first day of fifth grade. My ponytail held up by a bright white scrunchie, my nails painted some shade of blue that I can’t recall. It was August, and I had moved here in June. I knew no one. As a person who’s been anxious their whole life, a first day at a new school is not something I want. I was scared. Scared to enter not only a new school, but a town full of closely knit people. People who were everyone’s cousin, people who knew the entire population of the town. I grew up in the city. You have your people; you don’t say hi to strangers or people you met once. Over time, you learn the patterns. Some are cold and detached, others come right up to you and chat. You’re a small fish in a vast pond. Work hard, fake it till you make it, don’t ask for what you want, just make it happen. You’re on your own. 

I had entered a place entirely opposite to my “hometown.” Suddenly, I lived in a place of interdependence, community, calm. I never thought I’d actually make a friend. He sauntered up to me with confidence, a kind of determination that few people I knew had. Now, were his first words to me classy? No. Did he care? No. “Are you gay?” he asked me. I stood there in a sort of shock. What did he just ask me? “Uhhh, no.” I replied. He looked at me with a sort of mixture of annoyance and disappointment. “Okay, well, I’m kind of known as the gay kid around here. Do you want to be friends?” Needless to say, I agreed. 

For a year, I got to know him. His likes, his dislikes, his favorite music, his favorite foods (everything), his favorite shows; I knew almost every single thing about him. I had many people ask why I was friends with him. I could either give them the long answer or the short answer. I typically responded by saying that he was misunderstood and a really good person, but that was to get the skeptics off my back. The long answer was this. He treated me like anyone else. He didn’t care about me being a new kid; he didn’t care about the baggage I carried with me. He listened, and that was all. No judgment, no questioning, just listening. We spent our math class together whispering jokes and doodling on each other's workbooks. 

We were separated shortly after…, but the bond between us wasn’t broken. He came to my house twice before the school year ended. He was doing back-hand springs on my lawn upon his first arrival. He sat on my bed, looking around at my room. “Can I move in?” he asked. I laughed. His boldness had made me laugh since the day I met him. He was serious. I explained every aspect that had to be considered and sort of brushed it off. I don’t think I truly realized he was being genuine until later on. That summer, we didn’t see each other, at least not until school was about to start. My family and I pulled into the town’s pinnacle. For weeks, I had complained of not seeing him, of not getting texts or calls. I had figured he moved on, he found cooler friends, something like that. I looked out the passenger window to see a short, tan, quick-moving boy. It was him. I jumped out of the car and ran to him. He tackled me to the ground, a small, ginger-haired girl standing beside him. I would later learn it was his cousin. 

Sixth grade changed everything. On weekends, he slept over, beside me or on my bean bag, cocooned in a blanket. Weekends turned into occasional weekdays, and eventually, he would be living here half of the week. He stayed consistent in his begging to live with us, and he was beginning to worm his way into my mother and sister’s hearts. The boy who had quickly become my best friend was now more than just a best friend. He was my brother. Blood didn’t matter, blood doesn’t matter. He was family, no matter what anyone said, regardless of DNA or appearance or any of the superficial characteristics that are “supposed” to define who your family is. I defended him as I would anyone else I know and love, because he was one of my people. 

By late spring, he had convinced my mother, and he would move in by the beginning of June. He counted down the days until he could leave his foster home, his foster mom, the polar opposite of him. She had never understood him. She couldn’t accept him for him. It hadn’t ever been the right fit. This June marks his third year of not only living with me, but being a part of my family. I never thought I’d have a brother, or a friendship that could get as close as ours did. I stand corrected. We often talk about the future. What we want to do, where we want to be. No matter where we are, who we choose to love, or what paths we decide to take, we’ll be linked as long as we live. I know that for a fact.