We were twelve. Maybe thirteen.
I woke up in the middle of the night to something I couldn’t name. Just a feeling. Wrong.
I went to the window and looked out without knowing why.
And there he was.
Sitting at the end of his driveway in the dark. Just sitting there. Still.
I pulled on shoes and went out without waking my parents.
I didn’t say anything when I got to him.
I’d learned that from him — the not saying anything. I felt like it comforted him just knowing I was there.
I just sat down next to him on the concrete.
He didn’t look at me.
Didn’t tell me to go away.
Just — let me be there.
We sat like that for a long time.
I wasn’t sure, but I think he was crying.
For a while.
Long enough that the sky started doing that thing it does right before it gets light.
He never told me what happened.
I never asked.
But when we finally went back inside, he went to my room.
Not his.
Mine.
I’ve thought about that a lot.
That he could’ve been alone in that house.
That he chose not to be.
• • •
My mom sees my face the second I walk in.
She doesn’t ask what happened.
She just smiles gently.
“Movie night?” she offers.
I nod.
