“I used to think there was something fundamentally broken about me,” Nate said eventually.
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe the world's the thing that's wrong.” His thumb traced across my knuckles, absent and soothing. “Maybe we're not supposed to fit into boxes other people built. Maybe being different isn't the same thing as being broken.”
The problem wasn't that we were wrong for the world. The problem was that the world expected everyone to be the same, to want the same things, to find meaning in the same narrow definitions of success and belonging.
“I'm glad you moved here,” I said, the confession slipping out before I could think better of it. “I know that's selfish, considering how much you hate it. But I'm glad anyway.”
Nate turned to look at me, something soft and wondering in his expression. “Why?”
Honesty felt dangerous, like exposing something too fragile to survive examination. But lying felt worse.
“Because you make me feel less alone,” I said simply. “Because when you look at me, you see Evan instead of the Callahan kid or the weird quiet kid or whatever other labels people want to stick on me. You see me, and you like what you see, and that's...” I struggled for words that could hold the weight of what his friendship meant. “That's everything.”
Something shifted in Nate's face, surprise giving way to something warmer and more complicated. “You know what I see when I look at you?”
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
“I see someone who's been carrying burdens that would crush most people, but somehow you're still kind. Still gentle. Still willing to sit with the weird new kid and make him feel like maybe he's not as broken as he thought.” Nate's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I see someone who makes me feel likeI'm not the only person in the world who doesn't fit in the boxes other people built.”
The words hit me like physical force, settling into places that had been hollow for longer than I cared to admit. Because that was exactly what I'd been afraid of—that I was alone in feeling displaced, that everyone else had figured out how to navigate the world while I was still stumbling around trying to find my footing.
“You're not,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Alone, I mean. You're definitely not alone.”
“Neither are you.” His smile was small but real, the first genuine happiness I'd seen from him all day. “Maybe that's enough. Maybe we don't have to fit into their boxes. Maybe we can just be weird together.”
Relief flooded through me so intense it was almost painful, like circulation returning to a limb that had been numb too long. “I'd like that.”
“Good,” Nate said, leaning back against the rocks with a satisfied sigh. “Because I was getting really tired of pretending I wanted to be like everyone else.”
The ocean kept singing its ancient song, indifferent to human worries but somehow comforting in its permanence. We sat together on rocks that had weathered countless storms, watching waves that had been breaking against this shore since before our grandparents were born.
Some things were temporary. High school drama, teenage angst, the particular brand of loneliness that came from feeling like you were the only person in the world who couldn't figure out how to be normal.
But some things lasted. The ocean would keep singing long after we were gone. The rocks would keep standing long after our problems had faded into memory.
And maybe, if we were very lucky, the fragile thing growing between us would prove just as enduring. Maybe friendship could weather whatever storms were coming, could survive the revelation of truths too big for human words.
Maybe belonging wasn't about fitting into spaces that were never designed for people like us.
Maybe it was about finding someone who looked at your broken pieces and saw something beautiful instead of something that needed fixing.
“We should probably head back,” Nate said eventually, though he made no move to get up. “School tomorrow, and all that responsible teenage stuff.”
“Probably,” I agreed, also not moving. Because this felt too precious to end, too perfect to trust to memory alone.
“But maybe we could come back here sometime. When the world gets too loud again.”
“I'd like that.”
He smiled, the expression bright enough to rival moonlight on water. “Good. Because I think I'm going to need a lot of reminders that different doesn't mean broken.”
“Same.”
We stood up together, brushing sand and salt from our clothes, gathering the pieces of ourselves that we'd scattered across the rocks. The walk back through the forest would return us to the world of expectations and obligations, to the careful masks we wore to navigate spaces that weren't designed for people like us.
But for now, we had this. The memory of waves and moonlight and the simple miracle of being seen by someone who looked at our sharp edges and chose to stay anyway.
