i was six when i blew out my candles and wished that i was Peter Pan and you were Wendy Darling. for a year, you still laughed with me when we threw out our veggies and watched them swirl in the toilet and hid under the bunk bed that we shared. then you asked for a new bed and moved into the room next door where we couldn’t play board games under the moonlight or whisper about the new dollhouse with a built in elevator and the rock garden we planted in the backyard that you convinced me was growing. thriving. like the promise you made me when i sat next to you on the piano seat waiting for the song to finish. we’ll be together forever, until you went to a different school that was three years instead of five. when you began to brush your teeth past 11, i waited in my room until you fell asleep and i slipped onto the carpet by your bed so it could be like nothing changed. you stepped on my leg in the morning and screamed like you saw a ghost, but i was very real, even though it seemed you could no longer see me. i told you what i told myself every day since the sixth birthday but you said i was just a silly goose who had never finished the story of Neverland and you smiled down at my hand tugging on your belt loops because we were just two girls wandering among the stars.
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