Growing up, I had always considered myself the middle child. Sure, that wasn't exactly true, but I still couldn't stop the thought from resurfacing. My brother and I had always been close, the two of us effectively leaving my younger brother, Cole to eat rocks.

My mother had spent hours of most of our days consoling Cole. And considering how many mental issues he'd conjured over the years, I understood.

I understood that he needed her more than I, or any of my other siblings ever would. But that didn't stop me from holding even the least bit of resentment toward her.

My younger years went by slowly, me spending day after day in sports I didn't understand, nor did I care much for them. I had always joined them because of my big brother, Matthew.

He had been the one who told me just how amazing sports were. This began when he turned thirteen, and I had turned ten—we would spend hours on end, laughing and sharing war stories about practice.

"Just wait until middle school," he'd say, "Coach Riggs will drive you wild, with all the suicides and shit."

I remember smiling, my lips curling in excitement at being able to somewhat relate to my big brother. I had even began swearing on Matt's accord, him being completely proud of me.

Well, this had went on until my fifteenth birthday approached, me still having entire clue about anything, failing almost every class, and still an utmost virgin.

There was one, quiet, blistering night, where me, and all of my siblings were awakened at the sound of sharp knocking. Matthew looked over to me from his bed, eyes wide and fearful.

Beneath the door, I could see the dim lighting of the hallway, and the unfamiliar padding of someone's clad boots. Our bedroom's door was suddenly kicked open by a man in dark attire, a gun in hand.

My heart had frozen, and Matthew had instinctively thrown his hands into the air as a surrendering gesture, shouting at me to do the same.

When I had reciprocated, the officer shot forward, and began to handcuff my big brother.

The same big brother who I had looked up to since I was practically born, and the same big brother who I wanted to be exactly like. But at this time, the only thing that flooded my brain was questions.

What had he done? How long would he be away? And why did he do what he did?

The officer recited the same line of wording I had heard on television, but never thought I would have to endure in real life, as my brother sat there and took it.

My mother was hysterically crying, clinging onto her robe as she shouted over at the officers taking her little boy.

I was frozen. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak, couldn't even blink, as they took my role model in the middle of the night, claiming that he was guilty for the death of some guy who used to go our high school.

Caroline, Beth and Monica held onto one another in the corner of my bedroom, Caroline's eyes finding mine behind Beth shaking figure. I held her gaze, watching as she nodded over to our mother, mouthing.

"Hold her."

The next few years were a blur, I began to study harder, Matthew's absence having such an irrevocable impact on me, that I wanted nothing to what he had gotten himself into.

And soon, Caroline went off to school in Georgia, Monica made more friends, considering the fact that her only friend, including her closest sister, were now gone. And Beth—well, Beth was still far too young to even attend a high school, at that point.

I read more books, and had asked my very first girlfriend to the homecoming dance. And that night, I danced in front of others for the first time ever, and I wasn't ever afraid to say whether or not I was embarrassed.

Then soon, I had turned twenty-four, with no degree under my built, yet still carrying that smile I had packed on at a young age.

And this was a smile I hadn't smiled since Matthew had gotten locked up—a genuine one.

I had spent the last few years working at a local pawn shop, saving up enough money to take a long, and very much over-due vacation in Columbia.

I had been researching that very country for years, falling in love with the music, the people, the language, and everything in between. Soon, I found myself buying a ticket online, with the biggest smile I'd ever smiled on my face.

Columbia had been a dream that seemed so far, an adventure that I thought was too unrealistic to even try.

I must have taken thousands, and thousands of pictures of my time there. Whenever I'd eat something for the first time, or whenever I'd meet someone new, so unlike the others back in New York, I'd take another photo.

One night, while I had already gotten a little tipsy a few hours prior, a Columbia friend I had made, and I decided to go out on the town, and see just how much fun we could really have.

While waiting patiently for a drink from the very busy seeming bartender, a tanned, dark-haired woman my age took a seat at the stool beside me.

I tried to seem unbothered by her presence, and overall beauty, not wanting her to think that I was just like every other guy, trying to get her hammered and take her home.

She ordered her drink, of course, receiving it before I received mine.

As she took her first sip, she looked over to me, her chocolate colored eyes dimming under the blinking lights. "You're a quiet one."

I had frowned a little, while leaning back to down the rest of the liquid from the tiny bottle. "Not always."

She had laughed, and took another sip, seemingly careful about her large, red lips that coiled slightly. "Okay, well, what's your name, quiet one?"

I had rolled my eyes, not being able to stop that same smile from coming onto my lips. "Nick," I held out a hand her way.

"Eva."

Meeting Eva, had been confusing at first. She was different than any other girl I had ever been with. And sure, I never loved any of them, it almost felt like I could love her.

We would spend hours together in my hotel room, tangled beneath the sheets, as we shared whatever came to our minds, except what we really wanted to say.

Because who in their right mind, would tell their significant other of two weeks, that they loved them? It was insane to me—back then. I would hold her to my chest, as my fingers lightly massaged her scalp.

We had practically morphed into one during my time in Columbia, me never again lying eyes another.

"When you leave, where will that leave us?" She had asked one night, lying stilly in both of my arms, the both of us bare and vulnerable.

I had merely slowed my movements, and I looked down at her restless exterior, my own faltering. "I don't know, but I don't want to talk about that right now."

My words had been easily forgotten, and we had gone on, falling deeper and deeper into one another, as my flight back to the states got closer.

That day, when I began to pack my restless bag, Eva stood in the corner, a question falling from her lips that I hadn't even known had been there.

"What if I came with you?"

I had paused and turned to her, "what?"

She had repeated herself—and soon, the both of us were packing, side by side, together, as we paused around the same suitcase, shoving every ounce of our clothes inside.

Her family was concerned, concerned about the fact that she had never left the city before, yet alone the country. They had explained that maybe Eva wasn't exactly thinking about how far away New York really was.

I had tried to voice my concerns, also, but she dismissed them, merely hushing me with a kiss.

So, we took a plane home, our new home. My mother was happy, so, so happy to see to me again. Cole wouldn't stop asking Eva questions. About her culture, about the music, about her family.

It was an utmost culture shock when Cole learned that she had thirteen first cousins, four ants, five uncles, and of course, he extremely cultured parents.

We had subsided into my childhood bedroom for weeks, gradually growing even more unhappy than I was before I had even left for Columbia.

Eva couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep, and she wouldn't even look me in the eye. I had begged her, begged her to tell me what was wrong. I could slowly, slowly feel my heart dying along side her happiness.

One night, when I had gotten home from a hard days work at the local pawn shop, she was packing.

I had rushed to her side, and begged her to stop. Begged her not to take the only thing away from me who I could trust—herself.

But still, I understood why she was leaving. She couldn't bare being away from her family for so long. Her mother wasn't even able to call everyday, due to the inconvenience of long-distance calls, and the money it would take to make them.

And only two hours later—she was gone.

With her gone, it took me another set of weeks. Weeks and weeks of me trying to get back up again, but failing every time.

I knew it would take a while before I was happy again, but then again, maybe that was my fault. Maybe it was my own doing, with me going to Columbia, and falling completely in love with a girl from another country.

Even with being heartbroken, it was more than nice to see my brothers again—especially the one brother I hadn't seen since I was just a fifteen year old.

Falling in love, and losing that love had ripped me apart, and had given me the opportunity to put myself together—the way I was supposed to be. And maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe, I didn't need anything else.

Maybe—I would be just fine on my own.