I used to ask my parents regularly about getting Peter back. I googled adoption laws. I kicked and screamed when they gave his stuff away. My parents ended up taking me to see this doctor. We talked for a long time, she gave me pills, and I stopped asking questions. It wasn’t the pills, nor the talk, it was the dawning realization that that was it. If this was the only response that my parents had for me, Peter was never coming back. I wasn’t supposed to hope, I wasn’t supposed to fight. I was supposed to let go and move on.

I just didn’t realize that I would also be expected to forget.

“You don’t talk about him much, do you?” It’s a statement more than a question. When I look at Noah, I see that he doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer.

For some reason, I reply anyway. “I hate that we have this tacit rule that we don’t talk about it. My parents think that if we don’t put up the pictures or talk about him, it will be like he never existed. But he did exist. He was with us for nearly four years and we all fell in love with him before he was taken away. I think… I think it would just be easier if he wasn’t a forbidden subject.”

“He doesn’t have to be. If your parents aren’t ready, you can tell me about him.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Then don’t do it now, but when we’re at school and you think about him, just say it. ‘Peter used to watch that show.’ ‘That was my brother's favorite food.’ Just little things that sometimes need to be spoken, things that don’t mean much but become so heavy when we keep them inside.”

I feel… I don’t know how I feel. But I think it’s an important feeling. I think it’s something positive. Maybe such a simple thing is what I needed to start moving forward and I don’t know how to cope with seeing a way out of feeling stuck.

“Do you want to show me pictures of him?”

“All the pictures are gone.”

“Oh yeah? What’s in your unopened box then?”

For a second, I don’t know what to reply. Noah who always sees, who always knows.

He probably isn’t interested, but he seems happy when I get the box. I open it and Noah acts as if it’s not a big deal. He takes the framed certificate first. “Wow. You really are brainy.”

“It was a team effort.”

“Yeah. A team of brainies.”

Then he takes the flyer from the art show. “You were in a real exhibit? You know what? I’ve never seen what you do, but I’m gonna trust Purple. I want one of your pieces too,” he remarks.

“Like what?”

“Your next project.”

“What if it’s not good?”

“Then the one after that. The first one you really like.”

“What if I want to keep it?” I tease but I like the casualness of this conversation compared to the heaviness of the previous and next topics.

“Will, I’m not even joking. I helped you unpack without snooping and I’m eating all of your cookies even if it might give me diabetes. I totally deserve a painting. A drawing. A sculpture. What do you even do?”

“I’ll surprise you,” I reply.

“Fine. But no origami. That’s a ridiculous trend.”

I laugh, and my good mood lingers even when he takes the first picture of Peter. It’s a photo of the two of us reading a book in the old rocking chair which we left behind when we moved. He finds a few more pictures.

He comments, “He sort of looks like you…”

“You do know that we are absolutely not related, right?”

“Of course I know that! But look at this picture. He’s almost a mini-you.” I kind of see what he means, and I like that idea. That Peter and I could look like real brothers.

“Do you think he’ll forget me?” The words spill out of my mouth before I even know it.

“He was with you guys for four years.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t remember much about when I was seven…”

“He will probably forget details, but he won’t forget the love. Trust me: you never forget the love.”

There is something important behind that sentence, I can feel it. But I’m not like Noah; I can’t see these things clearly. I don’t know how to reach out to him the way he did to me and help him with whatever pain he has.

Noah takes the worn-out bunny out of the box. “Yours or his?”

“His. I guess his mother didn’t want to take it. I found it in the trash and I just… couldn’t.”

“You know what, Will? One day, you’ll bring it back to him. Even if it’s when he’s 18. I promise you he’ll remember.”

There is just something in his tone that makes me believe it. Peter won’t be a part of my life again. But one day, whenever that will be, I will go find him and let him know how important he was to me.

Noah smiles at me, and history just has a way of repeating itself, I guess. This moment feels like déjà-vu. The boy was different, the emotions were stronger, but the layout was similar. It was my bedroom – although another one – where I had blurted out all the feelings of having my little brother taken away not even a week before, and I had this almost uncontrollable urge to kiss the other boy.

I gave in then but I won’t now. Noah won’t be the new Matt.