Whenever I get together with my old college friends, it always begins the same way.
“Hey, big brother!”
It’s been thirty-eight years since we graduated.
Our hair has turned gray. Some of us have lost most of it. Conversations that once revolved around dreams, jobs, and romance now drift toward health, grandchildren, and retirement.
Time has quietly rewritten all of us.
Yet the moment someone calls me “big brother,” thirty-eight years seem to disappear.
I entered college after finishing my military service, about five years older than most of my classmates. Naturally, they treated me like an older brother.
Back then, I supported myself through part-time jobs and scholarships. I never asked my parents for money. Sometimes, I was even able to give my mother a little spending money instead.
Being the oldest, I often paid for meals and drinks.
When the night was over, I usually stayed behind to make sure everyone got home safely. If someone was too drunk, I helped them find a room to sleep. Before leaving, I would check the restaurant one last time to make sure no one had forgotten a bag, a jacket, or a wallet.
I never thought of it as anything special.
It simply felt like what an older brother should do.
Time, of course, changes people.
Our conversations are no longer the same. After decades of living different lives, how could they be?
But once someone says, “Do you remember that day…?” everything changes.
The years fade away.
Behind the gray hair, I can still see the young faces we once had.
To be honest, though, those reunions haven’t always been easy for me.
There was a time when I was the one buying dinner for everyone. Then life took turns I never expected, and somewhere along the way, I found myself feeling smaller than I used to.
Even during my hardest years, I never reached out to my college friends for help.
Was it pride?
Or was I simply trying to protect the image of the “big brother” they had always known?
Even now, I’m not sure.
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I started this blog.
Of course, I hope it will one day provide a little extra income.
But if I’m honest, that isn’t the deepest reason.
I wanted to stand tall again.
I wanted to meet those old friends without feeling that I had become someone smaller than the person they remembered.
Maybe that’s why I kept writing late into the night, learning new things, and refusing to give up.
The next time we meet, I know someone will smile and call out,
“Hey, big brother!”
And just like that, we’ll all be twenty years old again.