I was 13 when my brother left. I remember being in tears that previous night. My hysterical sobbing was what drove my brother to come into my room and comfort me until he had to leave the next morning.

With everything that was going on in the world- the War on Terrorism still going on almost 18 years after 9/11, Donald Trump trying to buy Greenland, stories I would read on the Internet about siblings seeing their brothers and sisters after graduation from a military academy and never seeing them again- I was terrified.

My brother was my best friend. I couldn't let him leave.

Eventually, I had to. I remember begging the airport officials to let me through security and to see my brother off at the gate.

But they wouldn’t budge.

I watched from security, my brother looking back waving until it looked like his hand was about to fall off.

For me, FaceTime and phone calls from Colorado weren’t enough.

I wanted to hop on a plane and fly to see my brother. But one phone call had that idea erased from my mind.

I remember it perfectly. He said, “Hey sissy! How’s school?”

I responded, “It’s fine. I have an audition tomorrow for a musical but nothing’s too interesting.”

He smiled. “You’ll do great. Hey, guess what?”

“What,” I replied, a ghost of a smile creeping on to my face.

“I’m happy! You don’t have to worry about me one bit. Tell John I miss him and I’ll see you soon!”

The screen went black. And I laughed. For the first time in months.