The grown-ups called it "enthusiasm." My mom said he was lonely. My dad said he'd grow out of it.

But here's the thing about creeps: they don't grow out of it. They just get better at hiding it until they don't have to anymore.

When we were kids, "creepy" wasn't a word I would have used. Danny was just weird—the kind of weird that made other aunts whisper and uncles exchange glances over holiday dinners. He was two years older than me, and at every family gathering, he'd find a reason to stand too close. Not touching. Just... hovering. Like he was waiting for something.

At first, I thought it was awkwardness. Danny was the kid who laughed a beat too late at jokes, who stared at your mouth when you spoke, who saved used tissues in his pockets "just in case." But as we got older, the word creep started fitting like a too-small coat.

By high school, Danny had discovered the internet. He'd send me long, rambling messages at 2 a.m. about how we were "connected spiritually" because our birthdays were six days apart. He'd show up at my school events uninvited, claiming he was "in the area." He'd comment on every photo I posted within seconds—not with anything threatening, just overly familiar. Miss you, cuz. Thinking of you. You look so grown up now.

So I'm saying it now. Danny isn't just awkward or lonely or socially clueless. He's a creep. And the rest of the family pretending otherwise doesn't protect me—it protects him.