You were my age but so much older/ Would never speak but always provided a shoulder/ Would keep me safe even as I kept you alive/ You left and a little boy died.
Think you have it? The answer is below.
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Answer: A childhood teddy bear (or imaginary friend) — outgrown, and with it a little boy 'died'
The trick here is that every line hides a quiet paradox that only makes sense once you picture a stuffed bear tucked under a kid's arm. "My age but so much older" works because the bear entered life the same day you did, yet felt ancient and wise in that comforting way old things do. It never spoke, but a shoulder to cry on doesn't need words — just softness and presence. The safety was mutual: you protected it from being lost or tossed out, and in return it steadied you through nightmares and new schools. The final twist is the misdirection — no one actually died. What ended was childhood itself, the small boy who needed a silent guardian. Outgrowing the bear is the quiet death of that earlier self, dressed up as tragedy to make you feel the loss.
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