And then the run.
Running has always been a way to get away from myself, from the dark edges of my mind. My legs carry me, my lungs burn, and usually the noise in my head dulls enough to survive another day. But the ghosts always find me anyway.
Except yesterday. With Noah there, those ghosts never came. The pounding of his steps beside mine, the way he cursed under his breath at every hill, the moment he laughed at one of my dry comments—just like that, the usual grip of bad memories loosened. The sound of his laugh was so bright and intense, it made me feel lighter. Proud, even, at being the one to make him laugh. That sound stayed with me the rest of the day, stubborn and unexpected.
I slip the note into the drawer where I keep the others. I’m not sure why I’ve saved them, but I can’t throw them out either.
They’re mine.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from my brother. He must be up early with Rose.
Aiden: How’s it going living with Noah? Is he annoying you and that’s why you made him go running yesterday?
My lips tick up at that.
Me: It’s been good, he’s not annoying. And I didn’t make him run, he wanted the cardio.
It’s been more than good, really. I like having him here; he’s easy to be around. He’s kind, thoughtful, and… sweet. He radiates a positive energy that I want to take in and hold on to.
Aiden: How many eighties movies has he made you watch?
I shake my head, laughing.
Me: Only two
Aiden: So far!
I can’t argue with that. I’m sure we’ll be watching more. I hope we will, anyway.
When I step into the hallway, Noah’s door opens at the same time. He’s dressed—joggers, worn-in sneakers, a long-sleeve fitted shirt pushed up to his elbows, hair like he rolled straight out of bed. It’s been like that since we were kids. I wonder if he even owns a hairbrush. That thought makes me want to laugh because I bet he doesn’t.
He tips his chin toward my shoes, lifting his brow in silent question. It’s not pushy or expectant—just an open invitation. One hand rests loosely on the doorknob, like he’s ready to close the door if I shake my head.
But I see the hope under the gesture. The way his mouth pulls into the faintest smile, like he wants me to say yes but won’t hold it against me if I don’t.
My stomach knots with nerves, but I do want him to come, so I nod. “Yeah.”
He grins at me as we leave the building. We fall into step without talking. I hear his breathing shift within minutes—strong, steady, but not the kind of runner’s breath that matches each stride.
Noah huffs beside me. “So, do you consider this… fun?”
I let out a small laugh. “Define fun.”
He groans but keeps going.
I know he doesn’t love running, so he’s just doing it to spend time with me. He wants to be my friend, and I want to give him something, too.
“I run to… it makes me feel more settled. It helps with…” I trail off, unable to find the words. Instead, I bring my finger to my scar and trace it.
Understanding crosses his face. “That makes sense. Lifting helps calm my mind, gives me clarity and the time to process thoughts. I get it.”
His response is so unexpected, so mature and accepting. He doesn’t ask for more as we continue on.
At the incline near the post office, he mutters something about writing his will. I snort. “You’ll survive,” I say dryly.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” he shoots back, and the words dissolve into laughter. “Why am I struggling so much? When will it get better?” His laugh startles me—not because it’s loud, but because I want to keep hearing it. It sinks into my chest and stays there, warming a place that usually stays cold.
I feel it again, that ridiculous pride. That he’s laughing with me. I give him a small smile and say, “It might take more than two runs.”
