We split a used laptop that overheated if you asked it to do too much at once. We took any job that would pay us without making us wait weeks.
Noah did remote IT support and tutoring—his voice calm, patient, the kind of voice that made even angry customers settle down. I worked at a coffee shop during the day and stocked shelves at night, my body moving on autopilot while my mind tried to keep up with assignments.
We furnished the apartment with what we could find: a table that wobbled unless you shoved a folded napkin under one leg, a couch from a thrift store that tried to stab you with springs, three plates that didn’t match, one good pan that we guarded like treasure.
Still, it was the first place that felt like ours.
The first place where nobody could barge in and tell us to line up.
The first place where the quiet at night belonged to us, too.
Somewhere in the grind, our friendship shifted.
Not with fireworks. Not with a cinematic moment that made everything clear.
It happened in small ways, like most real things do.
I realized I always felt calmer when I heard his wheels in the hallway—the gentle squeak, the soft bump as he crossed the threshold. The sound meant: You’re not alone.
He started texting me, “Message me when you get there,” every time I walked somewhere after dark. Not controlling. Not dramatic. Just… careful. Like he’d decided my safety mattered to him in a way that was permanent.
We’d put on a movie “just for background,” and then we’d end up actually watching it, shoulders touching, laughing at the same parts. Sometimes we’d fall asleep before it ended—my head on his shoulder, his hand resting on my knee like it belonged there.
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