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Sixteen is supposed to be the age when your life happens. For the first sixteen years of my life, I had been conditioned to buy into this idea. This idea is more or less bullshit, or at least the traditional interpretation of it is. When someone who hasn't lived through Sixteen thinks about Sixteen, they think of changes and achievements: dreams long sought-after, finally caught.
Consequentially, that was where I found myself on the night of July 17th: sitting in my room, staring at the clock on my computer screen. Around 11:57, an instant message popped up above the taskbar.

Ethan: emoryyy are you awake

It's difficult to maintain realistic expectations for the next year of your life when the name of the change you want most appears on your computer screen three minutes before midnight.
Ethan is that boy who is always in your head, regardless of whether or not he deserves a place there. He lives in the house next to mine-- naturally, we have known each other Forever, though most of Forever's acquaintanceship has been made up of childish insults. The past year or so of Forever has been actual friendship... and some other stuff. At least from my end.

Me: of course I am
Me: and don't call me Emory, for the love of all
Ethan: meh
Me: guess what's happening in like, two minutes
Ethan: ummm tomorrow?
Me: BESIDES THAT
Ethan: one minute now
Ethan: I dunno, nothing special
Me: you suck
Ethan: Em, I'm joking. You're turning 16.
Me: YESSSS
Ethan: EXCITED?
Me: YEAH OHMYGOD
Ethan: look, 12:00