He wasn’t staring out like he was waiting for someone to arrive. He looked like he was watching the world the way you watch a movie you’ve already seen—quiet, alert, like you’re collecting details other people miss.
One afternoon during “free time,” I had a book in my hand and a stubborn knot in my chest. The room felt too loud, too full of bodies and restless energy. I scanned for somewhere to land that wouldn’t require conversation.
And there he was, by the window, angled just so, like he’d claimed that patch of light for himself.
I walked over and dropped onto the floor near his chair. The linoleum was cold through my jeans. My book slapped lightly against my thigh.
I didn’t look up right away. I opened my book like I belonged there.
Then I said, without thinking too hard about it, “If you’re going to guard the window, you have to share the view.”
For a second there was only the distant sound of shouting from the other end of the room, and the hum of the building, and the faint squeak of his wheel as he shifted.
Then he looked down at me.
His eyebrows lifted, just slightly.
“You’re new,” he said.
His voice had that careful quality—like he weighed words before letting them go.
“More like returned,” I said, because that was what it felt like. Like I’d been dropped into a cycle and tossed back when I didn’t fit where they wanted me.
I finally glanced up.
He studied me for a beat longer than most kids did. Not suspicious exactly—just thorough.
“Claire,” I added.
He nodded once. One precise motion.
“Noah.”
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