I sat there. Let it land. Let all of it land.
He was right. Not partially right, not right with caveats. Just right. I'd walked in here carrying my crisis like it was the only thing in the world that mattered, and I'd handed it to Noah like he was a tool—something to use, not someone to see.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I mean it," I said.
"I don't want sorry. I want you to actually give a shit. Ask me about her. For real."
"Tell me about Priya. Actually—" I stood up. "Let's go to the dining hall. I just got a refill on my card. Dinner's on me. You talk, I listen."
Noah looked at me for a long moment, like he was deciding whether I meant it.
"You're buying?"
"I'm buying."
"With what, your scholarship money?"
"With my genuine desire to be a better friend. And also the meal plan refill, yeah."
Something loosened in his face. Not all the way—the frustration was still there, banked like coals—but enough. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.
"I'll talk to Chris tomorrow," he said, pocketing his phone. "About the number. We'll figure it out."
"Okay."
"But tonight you're listening to me talk about Priya for at least forty-five minutes. Non-negotiable."
"Deal."
"And you're going to ask follow-up questions. Real ones. Not the nodding thing you do where you're clearly thinking about something else."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do that."
We walked out into the hallway. The dorm was loud—someone's music bleeding through a door, a group arguing about something in the common room, the ordinary sounds of a Thursday night that I'd stopped hearing weeks ago.
"So," I said as we hit the stairs. "Tell me about Priya."
And Noah did. All the way across the quad, through the dining hall line, and for the better part of an hour over trays of mediocre pasta and decent coffee. He told me about the political theory seminar where they'd first argued, and the coffee that turned into three hours. He told me she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking and that she'd texted him three times today and that he thought it might be something real.
I listened. Asked the follow-up questions. Watched my best friend light up talking about someone who made him smarter and happier and more himself, and I thought about how close I'd come to missing all of it.
I ate. Not much, but enough.
And underneath the food and the conversation and the normalcy of a Friday night dinner with my roommate, Noah's words sat in my chest like a stone I couldn't swallow.
The longer the secret exists, the more power anyone with information has over you.
He was right. And I'd been so consumed by my own hiding that I hadn't even seen him standing right in front of me, waiting to be seen back.
But knowing he was right and being ready to do something about it were two very different things.
And I wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Chapter 13: Alex
