Jon has always been the romantic. He started dating before I did.

In the book of brothers, a gentle line is written by Drew Scott: “Jon has always been the romantic. He started dating before I did. I was more awkward and nervous in front of girls in high school.” Hear the humility of that confession—no envy, only the clear chime of truth. It is a candle set between twins to show how differently the same wind can move two flames. One leans eagerly toward the night air; the other shelters itself, flickering, learning its steadiness more slowly. In these few words lies a whole apprenticeship to the heart: timing is personal, and courage wears many faces.

Mark the structure of the saying. First, the blessing—“Jon… the romantic”—a tribute without thorns. Then the measure of time—“started dating before I did”—which admits that paths diverge even on the same road. Finally, the tender confession—“awkward and nervous… in front of girls in high school.” The sentence honors difference, chronology, and feeling. The ancients would have called this right naming, the first step toward wisdom: to announce one’s gifts and gaps without disguise, and to let love’s calendar be written in honest ink.

There is a larger meaning. We live among comparisons—siblings, classmates, colleagues—who seem to gather laurels while we are still learning the alphabet of daring. But growth is not a race; it is a season. Some vines fruit in early summer; some ripen under September light. To call a brother romantic is not to deny one’s own future tenderness; it is to bless the hand that reached the gate first. To admit being awkward is not to accept a destiny of silence; it is to describe the soil from which confidence may yet rise.

Consider a tale the elders told: Castor and Pollux, twin sons under different stars—one mortal, one divine—fought side by side but bore unlike destinies. Castor, the earthbound, learned the virtue of patience; Pollux, the star-blooded, the courage of restraint. Their bond was not weakened by their difference; it was deepened, each borrowing the other’s strength. So too among brothers and friends: the early romantic can teach warmth and initiative; the late-blooming heart can teach steadiness and reflection. Together they become a fuller schooling in love than either could alone.

A quieter, truer story: a shy student—call him Arun—watched his bolder friend cross gym floors with easy laughter. High school felt like a theater where he did not know his lines. He practiced small things: meeting eyes for a heartbeat longer, asking one honest question, learning to name his fear without apology. He failed, flushed, tried again. Years later, when the bold friend stumbled through a public heartbreak, it was Arun’s patience, learned in the furnace of awkward beginnings, that steadied them both. Early or late, the harvest was sweet because the root was tended.

From this saying of Drew Scott we gather a lesson to pass down: honor the pace at which your courage wakes. Admire the romantic without borrowing his costume; cultivate your own music. Do not despise awkward starts; they are the truest rehearsals. And guard your heart from the tyranny of “before I did.” Another’s first act is not your last. The stage is wide; the play has many scenes; entrances come when the soul is ready.

Practical rites for the road: (1) Train the small bravery—one greeting a day, one sincere compliment, one question that invites a story. (2) Keep a ledger of attempts, not just outcomes; nervous does not mean unworthy, it means new. (3) Borrow, don’t copy—if Jon leads with flourish, lead with presence; make eye contact, listen fully, decide clearly. (4) Learn the craft of conversation the way you’d learn carpentry: tools (open-ended questions), joints (shared values), finish (gratitude). (5) Bless your brother’s timing and your own; celebrate each other’s wins as common wealth. Do these, and your past high school hesitations will become the timber of a wiser heart—one that approaches love not as an impostor, but as a craftsman who has at last found his hands.