Date: April 22, 2025
Author: Daniel Ortega
Every now and then, I find myself back at the house we grew up in. It’s quiet now—less like a home and more like a museum to who we used to be. My sister and I are both way past our college years, living separate lives in different cities. But her room, for the most part, still looks like she never left.
And in her closet, tucked away on the top shelf, are her old photo albums.
When I visit, I sometimes flip through them. Especially the ones from her college days—photos of parties, bar crawls, dorm room chaos, people I’ve never met grinning beside her with red solo cups in hand. There’s something about those photos that always pulls me in. She looks loud and happy and wild in a way I never really got to see growing up.
Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s nostalgia for something I never experienced. Or maybe it’s a weird kind of jealousy—that she had a version of life that felt so uninhibited, so free.
We weren’t super close when we were younger. I was the older brother, more withdrawn, more serious. She was the one with the energy and the laughter. I don’t think I ever truly understood her back then. And maybe I still don’t. But looking at those pictures… it’s like I catch a glimpse of her from a distance I never knew I was standing at.
It’s not about the parties. It’s about seeing someone you love from an angle you missed entirely. It’s realizing that even the people we’ve known our whole lives still have versions of themselves we’ll never fully grasp.
I always put the albums back when I’m done. But I leave the room feeling a little closer to her each time—even if we never actually talk about it.
