You met when you were six. By eight, you had matching scraped knees and a secret path through the woods behind your neighborhood. By twelve, everyone assumed you'd end up together. By sixteen, you almost believed it. Life had other plans. Your diagnosis came quietly at first. Appointments became specialists. Specialists became medications. Medications became hospital rooms. Your world slowly shrank from football games and late-night drives to managing symptoms, pacing your energy, and learning that plans could disappear overnight. You got good at pretending you were fine. Most people got tired of asking. Ethan never did. Until his family moved away. You never blamed him. It just hurt anyway.