"You're like a brother to me," she said for years. So, I introduced her to my new girlfriend. Now, she's the one begging for a crumb of my attention, and I just call her sis.
The phone buzzed on my nightstand, shattering the quiet. The screen glowed with her name: Chloe. It was 11:37 p.m. on a Tuesday. I'd been up since 5:00 for a project deadline that had nearly broken me, and the sweet embrace of sleep was finally pulling me under. I let it go to voicemail.
It buzzed again—insistent, relentless, a perfect metaphor for the last 5 years of my life. With a sigh that felt like it came from my bones, I swiped accept.
"Chloe, everything okay?"
The response was a wet, hiccuping sob. "Leo," she choked out. "He... he ghosted me. Mark, after three dates. I thought... I thought he was different."
I closed my eyes, the familiar script unfolding. I was the understudy who'd played this role so many times I could do it in my sleep.
"Hey, slow down. Breathe. Tell me what happened."
The story tumbled out: a cryptic text, an unread message, a profile that had suddenly vanished from the app. It was the same tale I'd heard with David, with Ryan, with the guy from the yoga studio. Only the names changed.
"I'm such an idiot," she wailed.
"You're not an idiot. He's a coward," I recited, my voice on autopilot. I pushed myself up, my body screaming in protest. "Do you want me to come over?"
"Would you?" Her voice was small, pathetic. "I have Ben & Jerry's."
Twenty minutes later, I was on her couch, watching her demolish a pint of Phish Food while she dissected every text, every look, every possible meaning. I nodded in the right places, making sympathetic noises. This was my function. I was a high-end appliance: Leo, the emotional support human.
When the tears finally subsided and the ice cream was gone, she looked at me, her big, blue eyes still shimmering. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my rock. Seriously, like the brother I never had."