“You owe me.”
“Twelve years?”
“Twelve years.”
I took his hand.
Within approximately five seconds, he stepped directly on my shoe.
“Ow!”
“That was your fault.”
“How could that possibly be my fault?”
“Your dress is badly designed.”
“You’re terrible at dancing.”
“You knew that when you agreed.”
We started laughing.
People nearby looked at us.
We didn’t care.
And standing there under cheap decorations and flashing lights, I realized how much meaning adults can attach to moments children once understood instinctively.
When we were six, Noah had asked whether somebody could love him.
I had never thought of him as a diagnosis.
I had never thought of myself as somebody making a sacrifice.
He was simply Noah.
My friend.
The boy who hated raisins.
The boy who remembered promises.
The person who stayed.
And now we were almost adults.
The world had become more complicated.
But perhaps that part didn’t need to be.
