I nearly back out three times before Noah even shows up.
It’s just grocery shopping. Normal people do it every day without wanting to cry at the thought. But my brain isn’t normal, and every part of me feels like it’s wired too tight from the second I think about leaving the safety of my store.
Small talk in fluorescent lighting. Trying to remember how to exist next to someone who knew me before, someone I’m afraid to see me too closely now. I feel sick.
By the time I close the store, I’m one anxious thought away from pretending I have a headache. Or maybe something infectious, something that will scare Noah away. But then he’s there—easy grin, hoodie sleeves pushed up. “Hey. You ready?”
I take in his familiar face, that smile I’ve known for so long, and for some unknown reason, I say “yeah” instead of “no.”
The walk to the grocery store is short, but I spend the whole time replaying every awkward thing I’ve done since he moved in. The way my voice went weird when he first came into the store. How I flinched when his hand brushed mine. How I couldn’t look at him for too long without my pulse spiking like I’m waiting for impact.
It’s not him. It’s not his fault. My mind and body are at odds. Remembering sharp words, tense silence, every sigh I received like I was exhausting just by existing.
So now, every time I’m near someone new, my body braces for that sigh. For that flicker of irritation. I keep reminding myself Noah isn’t new, I know him. He knows me.
Or we did, before.
Inside the market, I focus on the task ahead. If I move quickly, maybe Noah won’t notice how tense I am, how hard I’m working to seem normal.
We go through a few aisles without talking. Noah holds up the odd item with a raised brow, and I nod every time. He’ll eat more of the food than I will, anyway. We’re halfway through produce when I see a mom juggling a squirming toddler, purse slipping, basket tipping like it’s seconds from falling. I move toward her. I hesitate at the last second—close enough to feel the edge of her space, the brush of possibility where her arm might graze mine. My chest gives a warning flutter, but I make myself stay put. I think of Aiden with Rose, and I’d hope someone would help him if he needed it.
“Do you need help?” I ask, smiling at the little boy. She looks surprised for half a second, then her shoulders drop in relief as she passes me the basket.
“Thank you,” she breathes, shifting the toddler to her other hip. He’s smiling and babbling, a line of drool running down his chin. Adorable.
“Of course,” I murmur, waiting until she has her bag secure before passing the basket back.
I’m smiling when I turn back and realize Noah’s watching me, head tilted. He’s not laughing or anything, just looking, in a way I can’t decipher.
“That was sweet of you,” he says after a moment.
Heat crawls up my neck instantly. “It was nothing. Anyone would have helped.”
“Felt like something,” he says gently, a crooked smile rising. “And most people don’t help strangers.”
I don’t know what to do with that—with him looking at me like I’ve done something worth mentioning. Compliments are tricky, they can be used against you. So, I nod once and walk a little faster, letting it fall behind us.
The snack aisle should be easy, I never get anything here. But then I see them.Oreos. My favorite. I haven’t bought them in years, not since Kyle made that cutting remark— “You don’t need crap like that, Gabe. What are you, a child? Put them back.” I know now it wasn’t about the cookies. It was about control.
Even now, so much time has passed, and I just stare at the shelf, hand twitching but not moving. I want them, so why is this so hard?
Then Noah’s voice cuts in, warm and teasing. “You like Oreos?”
I still, embarrassed at being caught staring at them. “I… yeah.”
He grins and tosses a pack into the basket. Then another. “Me too! They’re my favorite. One each. Nonnegotiable.”
My brain stutters. “That’s… a lot of cookies.”
“No such thing as too many Oreos,” he says, like it’s a fact of life. Like there’s nothing wrong with wanting them. And thereisn’t. I know there isn’t. But I’ve struggled to put a pack in my basket for so long, and now I’m apparently buying two.
Something small and tight in my chest loosens. I hadn’t realized how much carrying every little rule impacted even the smallest parts of my day. But here’s Noah, unbothered, laughing about cookies, encouraging me to buy even more.
I mutter, “Too many,” and look away before he can see the smile and flush on my face. The Oreos stay in the basket.
Every week I’ve passed them. Wanting them. And now that I have them, I won’t put them back. I can already picture opening them, the taste rich and sweet after telling myself no for so long. I feel a sense of giddy anticipation… over cookies.
On the walk back to the apartment, the conversation stays light. I don’t say much, just enough to keep up, but Noah doesn’t seem to mind my quietness. He never sighs, never makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me for being quiet. He just walks beside me.
