I was seventeen. Chloe was twenty, wore ripped band tees like they were couture, and laughed with her whole body. She also had this habit of making coffee in the morning while leaning against the counter in nothing but an oversized hoodie and socks. The kitchen became my personal obstacle course of trying not to stare.
By August, she moved into an apartment near campus. My sister helped her pack. I carried one box—the one labeled “winter clothes”—just to have an excuse to be near her one last time. mysitershotfriend
“See you around, little brother,” she said, ruffling my hair. I was seventeen
She’d ask about my summer reading. She taught me how to parallel park in our cul-de-sac. Once, she even defended me at dinner when my sister made fun of my “weird” taste in music. “Let him like what he likes,” Chloe said, winking. I nearly choked on a breadstick. The kitchen became my personal obstacle course of
And yeah. You also learn to make a mean cup of coffee.
Looking back, it wasn’t about Chloe being “hot.” It was about her treating me like a person, not just a kid. She showed up, she was kind, and she confused every teenage hormone I had into something almost tender.