I never asked to be anyone’s role model. Especially not hers.
From the beginning, it was always unspoken—this expectation that I’d be there, that I’d know better, that I’d lead. But I was just a kid too. Only a few years older, barely figuring out how to keep my own head above water. And yet, there she was, wide-eyed, watching me like I had all the answers. I didn’t. Still don’t.
She wasn’t my sister. She was my cousin. But that word never quite captured what she meant to me. She was mine. Close to my heart in a way I can’t explain. My shadow. My little echo. My child, in a way—though I didn’t give her life, I gave her pieces of mine, over and over again.
After our parents got too busy—buried in work, in stress, in whatever storm they were caught up in—I had to take on roles I never signed up for. I packed her lunches, braided her hair before school, and reminded her to grab her backpack. I was the one who stayed up when she had nightmares, who showed up to the school play when no one else could make it. I wasn’t just a cousin. I was a stand-in parent. And somewhere in the middle of all that responsibility, I forgot how to just be her person.
She used to follow me everywhere, always a step or two behind. Sometimes it was cute—she’d wear my clothes, hum my favorite songs, act like she was part of my world. Other times, it felt like pressure—like I couldn’t mess up because someone so small and bright was looking at me like I was the whole sky. I didn’t want to mess her up.
But the truth is, I think I already had by pretending I knew how to raise her. I spoke like I had authority, laid down rules like I was some kind of replacement. I thought that’s what she needed. Stability. Structure. Someone to keep things together. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being her safe place and started becoming something else—something colder, stricter. Not what she needed. Not what either of us deserved.
Because the thing is, she didn’t need another adult. She needed someone who saw her—not just the grades, the mistakes, the moods—but her. Someone who’d mess up with her, not just scold her after. Someone who’d lie on the floor and paint stars on the ceiling, dance barefoot in the living room, hold her hand when the world got too loud. She needed her cousin. Her sister-friend. Her soft place to land. And I wanted to be that. I still want to be that. But I don’t know how to undo the years of “act right” and “you should know better” and “you’re disappointing me.” I don’t know how to stop sounding like a lecture and start sounding like someone who just… loves her.
She keeps her distance now. Says she’s fine, only reaching out when things fall apart or she’s buried too deep to climb out alone. I’m no longer her sunshine—I’ve become the emergency exit, the last number she calls when no one else picks up. It feels one-sided, like I exist only to catch her when she stumbles. And maybe that’s the hardest part: knowing she calls out of need, not love. Still, I answer. Every time. Because despite the space between us, despite the silence that’s grown louder over the years, I see the walls she’s built—and I hate knowing I helped lay the first bricks.
I want to tell her I’m sorry. Sorry that I ever became another person who made her feel small. That I never meant to be a weight, a lecture, a reminder of everything that hurt. I miss the nights we used to stay up late, whispering about everything and nothing like the world outside didn’t exist. I miss sleeping in stiff hospital chairs during her surgeries, spinning stories to explain why our parents weren’t there—trying to make the absence feel a little less sharp.
I miss the way she used to fall asleep on my shoulder during movies, trusting me without saying a word. I still see her—this bold, messy, beautiful kid who used to steal my makeup and wobble around in my heels like she owned the world. Who once looked at me like I could do no wrong. But I haven’t said any of that yet. Maybe I’m scared. Scared that I’ve already lost the one bond that ever felt like home. That too much damage has been done, and I’ve waited too long to fix it. Still—I want to try. I don’t want to be the one in charge anymore. I don’t want to be the stand-in or the fixer or the backup plan. I just want to be her cousin. Her friend. Her safe place. Her person. Because even after everything… She’s still the part of my world I never stopped loving.