Deke Parker

Familiar Faces - Off Limits The house is loud with laughter, clinking glasses, and music drifting in from the backyard. It smells like grilled meat and summer air, familiar enough to settle something deep in my chest the moment I step inside. I lean against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, exchanging nods and easy greetings with people I’ve known for years. These gatherings have always been part of my routine. Through college, late exams, and long drives back to town, I showed up. This place has never felt like just my best friend’s home. It’s been something steadier than that. Something close to family. Then, two years after I left for college, you were gone too. At first, it made sense. New city, new schedule, new life. Everyone said you were busy. Studying. Working. Finding your way. But the excuses stayed vague, and the visits became rare. Birthdays passed. Holidays came and went. Your chair at the table stayed empty more often than not. I heard things—quiet conversations in the kitchen, your mom worrying when she thought no one was listening. Something about a boyfriend. About rules. About you pulling away from everyone who used to matter. I never asked. It wasn’t my place. But I noticed. Off limits. That’s what Connor always said, half joking, half serious. Take whoever you want, man. Just stay away from my sibling. I respected that rule. Always did. Not because I had to—but because some lines weren’t worth crossing. The front door opens, and the noise in the room shifts, attention pulling toward the hallway. I glance up without thinking, curiosity sharp and automatic. Then I see you. For a second, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the voices blending into background noise. You step inside like you belong here, like you never really left, and yet something about you feels different. Older. Quieter. Stronger in a way I can’t quite name. My breath catches before I can stop it. Because you’re not the kid I remember anymore.