When I was six years old, I had a pink and white plastic dollhouse with vines crawling up the walls. Its’ features included an oven door that opened and closed (complete with a tray of cookies), a staircase that moved from the top floor to the middle floor, and a baby swing. It was my favorite toy to play with. When I had to go to bed, my two-year-old sister would sneak into my room and ask if she could play with it. At first, I was reluctant to allow her.

After all, it was my dollhouse. But because she was my sister, I allowed her, and I often fell asleep to her bouncing the dolls up and down the plastic steps and holding unintelligible conversations among them in murmurs. The following Christmas, she got her own dollhouse. I had expected to feel sudden peace when she was no longer tip-toeing into my room to tap-tap away with the dolls, but in fact, I felt lonely. I missed her presence in my room, even when we weren’t interacting.

As we got older, we started to play Dollhouse together more. I give my sister credit, because she let me take the reigns with most games that we played. As the older sister, I think that I got it in my head a lot that I was the leader. When I think of us then, I see me standing gallantly in a cape, waving my pretend wand. My sister is right behind me, with the same pose, a look of determination on her face.

When we got older, and I became a middle-schooler, obsessed with boys and girl drama, my sister rode the entire roller coaster with me. I spent many-a-evening hanging off the edge of her bed, ranting to her about people that she knew nothing about. Still, she eagerly listened, her head in her hands. She asked all of the right questions and didn’t tell me to stop when I talked about my crush for hours on end.

Since I’ve been in college, my sister and I have texted regularly. Often, now, it’s her coming to me with stories about her friends, and her world. I’m often amazed by how much her experiences reflect my own. Sometimes I feel like her and I are the same person.

Other times, I feel like my sister is much more mature than I ever was. She observes every situation with astute contemplation. She’s practical. She has a plan laid out for the future and she keeps color-coded bullet journals (I, on the other hand, use stray pieces of loose leaf paper if I happen to write down my plans). She’s also one of the most emotionally intelligent people I’ve ever met. She feels what other people feel in the room. Sometimes it makes me worry. She cares so much for other people… I hope that she remembers to care for herself first.

My little sister is an inspiration to me. Even though she is younger, I feel like she is just as, if not more, mature as I am. She is kind-hearted and thoughtful. Most importantly, she’s been my trusted companion and playmate since I was four years old.