1 4 - N O A H

I sit on the floor of the living room in a state of disbelief, my limbs seemingly frozen to the ground. My mind is just as frozen as my body. I can't fully comprehend what's about to happen. What's at stake. I don't think Emma realizes quite how much I need Chance right now, even just as a friend. I don't think she understands how broken I'll be if Chance decides he doesn't want to talk to me anymore, if he decides that he hates me.

He's become essential to my life, quite literally. He's helped me sleep when nobody else can, and when I'm with him, my mind takes a break from assaulting me with its incessant and brutal thoughts. But now, a few bad decisions and overreactions that I made because of my exhaustion have pushed the delicate balance I had established out of control, and everything's crumbling down around me.

I don't know what to do. I may have felt this hopeless before, in the midst of my sickness a few years ago, but I don't think I've ever felt this much despair.

My heart pounds my chest as I hear the doorbell ring, its cheery jingle entirely inappropriate for the current situation, but it's not like I can just ignore it. Not after Emma told him I'd be here. Silently cursing Emma, I force myself to my feet, ignoring the way my arms and legs feel leaden and unbendable. I reluctantly shuffle over to the door and push it open slowly, flinching at the loud creak it makes.

"Hey," he greets almost normally, and for a second, I forget why he's here. Until a little bit of awkwardness enters his tone, because I'm unable to do anything but stand there and stare at him. "Um...can I come in?"

I nod, lowering my gaze to his feet as he steps inside and kicks off his shoes. He walks over to the couch and sits down, patting the spot next to him. I ignore his gesture and sit on the other end, as far away from him as possible, leaving a tall pile of pillows between us as if it would shield me from the awkwardness. From the pain.

"So..." He trails off. I imagine he looks uncomfortable, but I can't bring myself to look at his face, to meet his eyes. I have no idea what he's feeling right now besides discomfort, but I don't want to know.

"I don't want to talk about this," I whisper, looking away. I hate how weak my voice sounds. I hate that I'm making him uncomfortable. I hate that I've put him in this situation. I hate this.

I hate myself.

"Why not?" he asks, oblivious to my self-loathing but almost definitely not to my discomfort. If nothing else, my constant fidgeting gives it away; I can't decide what to do with my hands, or with my body in general. Keeping still isn't an option, because if I were to stop moving, I think I'd probably go insane. Scream, maybe. Or throw something at the wall.

"Shouldn't that be obvious?"

"No?" I don't know how he's so incredibly patient with me. I've been rude to him all day, both at the shop and here, but he keeps the same level, understanding tone. It just makes me feel all the more guilty. "I already heard some stuff from Emma, but not everything. She told me you were ashamed. Why?"

"Don't make me say it," I plead, taking one pillow off the wall I created between us and hugging it to my chest.

"I won't make you," he agrees. Damn it, why does he have to be so understanding? It's making it hard to resist. "You don't have to tell me anything that you really, really don't want to. But I think it'll make you feel better to get it off your chest. It's obviously not making you feel good, keeping it all to yourself. And I'm not going to hate you no matter what you say, Noah. Please don't worry about that."

"Fine." I try to swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and I find it almost impossible. "I—damn it, I can't do this."

He reaches over and rests his hand on my shoulder. "You can."

I take a shuddering breath, the sharp inhale hurting my lungs. "I like you," I blurt out before I can back out. "More than I should. And I hate myself for it."

"Why does that make you hate yourself?" he asks gently, removing his hand from my shoulder so that he can toss the wall of pillows to the floor. The lack of pressure and warmth from his palm makes me shiver, and I hate myself for being so weak. For being so dependent on him. Then, he scoots over to me so that when he sits, his shoulder almost touches mine. But he leaves a short distance, and I appreciate that.

"Why wouldn't I hate myself for that?"

"Because you have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to hate yourself for. Emma doesn't hate you. I don't hate you. How could I? You have to give yourself more credit, Noah."

I look up at him then, meeting his eyes. They aren't filled with disappointment, hatred, or fear like I'd been expecting. Instead, they're overflowing with warmth, with concern. With affection. "You don't hate me? You really mean it?"

"Of course," Chance says, not breaking eye contact. "You make me happy. I like being around you. I don't like it when you're sad. It makes me want to be there for you, to help you. There's no way I could hate you."

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. "Oh my gosh." I try to bring my hands up to my head, but they're trembling so hard that I almost can't lift them. He reaches out and wraps his hands around mine, bringing them back down to my lap.

"You'll be fine," he assures me. "It'll be okay. I promise."

I break the silence after a few moments. "Chance?" I ask. "What are you thinking? About..." I trail off, not wanting to finish the sentence, but he understands.

"I don't know," he says bluntly. "To be honest, I've never been attracted to anyone before, romantically or physically. I've always assumed I was asexual and maybe even aromantic, though I think I've always wanted a romantic relationship, so I'm more hesitant about labeling myself that way." He pauses. "But I keep finding myself looking at you, and when I'm at home, I keep wishing you were there."

"Oh," I whisper, my face heating up. I'm so torn between wanting to let myself be hopeful at his words and wanting to ignore them in order to protect myself. It feels like there's a game of tug-of-war going on in my brain right now, and I'm the rope, being stretched thin and almost to the breaking point in both directions. "Okay."

"I'm really not sure what that means," he continues. "It's been so long since I've been friends with someone like this that I'm not sure what I'm feeling. And I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but just give me some time. I'll try to figure it out. I promise."

I laugh incredulously. "That's nowhere near the last thing I wanted to hear. I was afraid you'd think I was weird or hate me or not want to be around me anymore. Honestly, I don't know if I could take that right now."

"Not at all. I'm not going anywhere, so don't worry," he responds, shaking his head, but then his face falls. "Hey, you said you were depressed when you got sick, right? Are you now?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so. I mean, sometimes I just have a bad day or a bad week, but it's nowhere close to what it was. No worse than anyone else, probably. Or even if it is worse than other people, it's much better than it was."

"That's great." He smiles. "If you ever feel like that again, can you talk to me?"

"Would you tell someone about why you wish you didn't exist?"

"Probably if they asked me to," he says. "It's good to talk about, I think. It's good to get stuff off your chest, but it's also good to let other people know what you're going through so they can try to be supportive."

I give him a weird look. "How can you say stuff like that without being embarrassed?"

He laughs. "Emma asked me that too. I'm not sure. Nobody ever told me to be embarrassed about stuff like that, so I'm just not. Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"A little," I admit. "But now I feel a lot better. You're really good with words. And actions. And everything. How do you always know what to do to calm me down?"

He scratches his head, probably just as mystified as I am. "I'm not sure. If I let myself think about what I'm doing or saying, I'll freak out. So long as I don't think about stuff too much, I'm fine."

"Yeah, I've noticed your panics. At first, I thought they were amusing, but then I started thinking they were cute. And then I started freaking out because of that."

"Please don't freak out about that anymore." He shifts, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me closer. I stiffen but then relax into his touch, reminding myself that he's okay with everything and isn't forcing himself for my sake. After I get over that, it's nice.

I do have to admit that it's nice to be able to enjoy his embrace without a sliver of guilt poking at the back of my mind. Because he knows how me makes me feel, now, and he's okay with that. I don't feel as though I've wronged him, somehow, or taken advantage of his obliviousness.

We stay in silence like that for another five minutes or so, and just when I'm about to get up, he lets out a light snore. I laugh quietly, debating whether to risk waking him by getting up. But I'm suddenly starving, my stomach burning because I haven't eaten all day, so I slowly remove his arms from where they're draped around my shoulders and stand up.

As I walk into the kitchen, I hear my phone buzzing from where I'd left it on the counter. When I pick it up, I notice Emma's name on the screen. Sighing, I accept the call.

"Noah?" Her voice is hesitant, and she sounds terrified. "Did everything go okay? I told Chance to text me, but he hasn't said anything."

"Yeah. He's asleep."

I can hear the concern in her voice. "Did something happen?"

"I don't think so. I think he's just tired. He was really stressed." I open the cabinet and pull out a container of pasta. "I'm making food for him now so he can have something when he wakes up."

"That's sweet," she said. "Does that mean everything went well?"

"Better than I expected. He doesn't seem to hate me."

She signs. "Of course he doesn't hate you. I made sure to talk to him before I sent him over, you know. I'm not that stupid."

"Thanks," I say. "Though I still hate you for telling him. Just because I'm happy with how it turned out doesn't mean that it was okay. What you did was absolutely not okay, Emma. How am I supposed to trust you now?"

"I know. I feel really bad for meddling, but I felt like I needed to. You never would have done anything otherwise. And he was kind of hurting, too. He was worried about you and was trying to figure out what he did wrong. I know I violated your trust, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm not sorry for what I did."

The water starts to boil, so I pour the pasta into the pot. "I still really don't like this whole situation."

"I think it'll all turn out well," she assures me. "He didn't seem opposed to exploring a relationship or anything like that. I think that as long as you act normally and don't act weirdly around him, it'll be fine. Don't necessarily act like what you just talked about didn't happen, though."

"Yeah. I hate saying this, but thanks again." When the timer goes off, I get out two bowls and fill them both. Chance pads into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"I have to go," I tell Emma, hanging up without waiting for her reply. I feel like I have the right to do that much, at least, after what she did. Then I turn to Chance. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Yeah." He nods.

"Sorry. Are you hungry?" I hold out a bowl toward him.

"Yeah. Thanks." He takes it from my hands and grabs a fork from the drawer. I shake my head, trying to figure out how he knows my kitchen so well. He's only been over once before.

"You started homeschooling again, right?" I say to break the silence and stop myself from drowning in my thoughts. "What are you studying?"

"My mom lets me study mostly what I want as long as I have a good balance of subjects, so I'm doing psychology, physics, chemistry, calculus, and literature."

"Wow, that's really advanced. Are you learning how to calm people down or something in psychology? Is that why you're so good at it?"

He shakes his head. "I haven't gotten to relationship psychology yet."

"What about foreign languages?"

He tilts his head ever so slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You aren't studying any foreign languages?"

"Oh. Nope. I don't really see the point."

I shake my head and sigh. "That's sad. Do you know what I'd study if I could study whatever I wanted?"

He shakes his head. "Nope, what?"

"Psychology, linguistics, Spanish, French, Korean, Japanese, Turkish, German, Mandarin, Portuguese, Norwegian, Arabic—"

"That many?" he interrupts, his jaw dropping. "How would you keep them all straight?"

"It's not that hard for me," I admit. "I'm taking both French and Spanish at school and I'm self-studying Korean, Japanese, and German on my own. I want to pick up Turkish, Mandarin, and Portuguese. And, like, every single language ever. But those are my top choices."

He shakes his head. "Wow, that's incredible. I should probably start doing that, but it freaks me out. It feels like I'm committing myself to another culture."

"You're not committing yourself to only one culture, though," I counter. "You're opening yourself up to all of them. There's a difference. And it shows up at weird times."

"Like what?"

"Well, whenever I go to Korean or Japanese restaurants, I always unconsciously bow when I thank the staff, which is something I never do when I go to, like, Italian restaurants. And Emma's told me that I talk in Spanish in my sleep. I have dreams in other languages, too. It's pretty fun."

"What the heck? That's actually really cool."

"Yeah. I really love languages. I really want to study abroad sometime." I brighten. "Hey, if you ever move somewhere else, I can follow you and go to college there!"

He gives me a small smile. "Yeah, maybe. I'm hoping I won't have to move again though."

"Well, if you do, we should learn the language together! Then you can meet more people and have more fun!" I think for a minute, adding, "But you can't forget about me. When you get super popular and stuff."

He laughs at that. "I'm not going to be popular or anything like that, but sure."

"You never know, maybe you will. You're pretty awesome."

He blushes at that, looking extremely flustered, and it makes my heart leap. "Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome."

After a while, Chance stands up, walking over to the dishwasher and loading his bowl in before coming back for mine. I shake my head. "I'll do it myself."

"Nope," he says, grinning as he snatches my bowl and darts over to the dishwasher. I leap up after him.

"Hey, that's not fair."

"Is too. I got it first."

"But it was my bowl."

"You made dinner. I'm cleaning up. And if you don't stop complaining, I'm going to go make your bed, too."

I frown. "You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me," he says, turning and running in the direction of the stairs. I follow close behind, reaching out multiple times in an attempt to stop him, but each time, he's just a little bit too far away. Until he abruptly stops.

I look at him questioningly. "What's wrong?"

"Your bed is already made," he pouts. "That's no fun."

"Ha, joke's on you."

His pout deepens, but it's a playful pout, not a real one, and it makes me smile. I sit down on the edge of the bed and pat the space beside me. "Let's rest for a while. Are you still tired from earlier?"

"Not really. I feel pretty awake now. I'm sorry about that, I'm not sure what happened. Can I look at your books?"

"Sure."

"Do you have Harry Potter?"

"Yeah. In Japanese."

"Percy Jackson?"

"Spanish." I smirk at the look on his face. "Look in the top left. I have my books organized alphabetically by language."

"Again, what the heck."

I shrug. "I do weird stuff when I can't sleep. And organizing books is fun. Every few months, I change my organization pattern. It used to be by colors, so my bookcase was a giant rainbow."

I turn on the reading lamp over my bed and cross the room to turn off the overhead light. When he chooses a book, I angle the light in his direction, and he smiles gratefully before turning his attention back to the book.

When I catch a glimpse of the cover, I'm pleasantly surprised—it's Dragons and Flies, the book I recommended to him the first day I met him. That night seems like such a long time ago that I can hardly believe it's been less than two weeks. It seems so wrong that I've known him for such a short amount of time.

"You remembered?" I ask curiously.

He nods. "I'm still not convinced that I'll like it, but I'll give it a try."

I let my head rest on my pillow, lying on my side so I can watch him as he reads. I love watching the way his eyes move back and forth across the page, the way he gently blows his bangs away from his face. Watching him is addicting, almost hypnotic, but I can only go so long without blinking before my eyes start to hurt. And adding that to the exhaustion that I already feel from not sleeping at all last night, it's only after a short while of staring at his sitting figure that I fall asleep.