We lived three houses apart on a quiet street.
Our mothers used to joke that they barely had to raise us because we were always raising each other.
Leo taught me how to ride a bicycle.
I taught him how to whistle through his fingers.
We built forts from old blankets, buried notes in glass jars, and once tried to run away together because our parents would not let us have cake before dinner.
We made it to the end of the block.
Then his family moved.
There had been no warning.
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