Buckley's family makes pierogi, polish dumplings, annually on Christmas Eve. Being so close to them, I was stoked when asked to participate. Walking in wearing my Elf onesie, I brought a bread roller and a pervading excitement. Our venture began making the dough. With “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” in the background, we placed the ingredients onto the table, and the fiasco began. After creating the flour, we folded the dough and put it into the refrigerator. Moving onto filling, we talked about soccer, colleges, and traditions. As the day went on, it was filled with smiles, great food, and terrible dad jokes. While it was all I had hoped for and more, I left with a sense of confusion and sadness. One moment had stumped me. Buckley's dad asked, “Riley, does your family have any traditions like this?” I pondered, hesitated, and replied, “You are very lucky to have moments like these.” After his question and seeing the bonds that Buckley had with her parents, I began to question my own. While Buckley and her parents shared stories, traditions, and emotions with each other, my parents and I failed to share anything beyond “How are your classes?”. I tried to recall the last time we spoke about anything of value or importance; I failed. Later that night, I felt like I couldn't tell my parents about my experience. I felt as I always had: I couldn't share with them my hopes, dreams, emotions. I saw them as probation officers--making sure I followed the rules. Our interactions: only artificial. I wanted to have bonds like Buckley's family, but I didn't know where to begin. I didn't know how to tell them that our relationship felt transactional and superficial. I didn't know how to say that while I loved every second of making pierogi, it was bittersweet because I envy the bonds Buckley has with her parents. I didn't know how to express myself or my feelings, so I locked them inside. I tried to hide them from others, from myself. Months passed; moments reminded me of my broken relationship, so I pushed it farther into the darkness. I began telling myself that on Christmas Eve I was sad because I didn't enjoy making pierogi. I buried it so far underneath lies to myself and others that I started to believe them. It was a Thursday in March when “Bang, bang, bang!” I walked to the door to see Buckley crying. I opened the door, and she stormed all the way to my room. As I walked into the bedroom, she closed the door behind me and said, “Why didn't you tell me you didn't like making pierogi? I thought you enjoyed cooking. I thought you enjoyed my family.” I froze. Then, I broke down in tears and told her everything. I told her how much I valued the cooking, her family, and our friendship. I told her why I had lied when others asked. I told her about my relationship with my parents, about my fear that I'll go off to college and never see them again besides holidays, about my fear that I'll never have the bonds she possesses. I was scared, unsure. As the words trickled out my mouth, so did my heart. As we talked, I began to see for the first time. I saw that it's acceptable for a man to be emotionally vulnerable. I saw how to accept and love someone despite their shortcomings. I saw my best friend, my world. The following day, I told my parents everything I had Buckley. I told them all my fears, goals, emotions. I told them where I felt our relationship was and where I thought it was going. We began down a path, unsure how to navigate, unsure where to go. So, we went deep: deep into our struggles, deep into our emotions, deep into our hearts.