Noah receives a “B” for his essay. Apparently, it’s a big deal. I’m glad that makes him happy because that’s probably the best I can do for him. I don’t struggle in English at all, but I’m still more of a numbers person.

When we get the papers back, he turns around, looks at me with mischievous eyes and a happy smile, shows me his grade, and states: “You’re my official tutor now.”

Although it is a joke and I’m pretty sure he meant it that way, he comes to see me a few days after the next essay has been assigned, telling me that he's struggling with the new assignment and would like to have another study session. If I’m fine with that.

Of course, I’m fine with that! There is something strangely soothing and empowering, almost cathartic, in feeling useful.

With Noah being Noah, our study sessions are everything but regular, so we stopped planning them. They are always last-minute. He always asks if I’m free at the moment, and I don’t feel guilty anymore when I tell him that I can’t. Our sessions take place in the library or at my house, and I don’t even question it. I don’t know what it takes to be invited at Noah’s place, but given how little he shares about his life outside of school, I get that our friendship is not there yet. And might never be.

Austin becomes busy with practice as the season will start soon – or something – but he still makes time to join Lena and me for our usual coffee break.

Most of the baristas now know us by name. I’m not sure if it’s sweet or weird. When I lived in a bigger city, even the people working at the Starbucks where I got coffee every morning didn’t know, or care about, my name.

Lena and I travel to the city twice to see art exhibitions. It’s my first spontaneous trip with a friend. School trips obviously do not count. Even I would take a field trip over algebra any day, regardless of the program.

While I love the first show, the second one is unimpressive. Lena tells me that it always gives her hope to see uninspiring or uninspired art being exhibited. According to her, if those made it there, then any artist has a chance.

She has a point, I guess.

The cynic in me would argue that, on the contrary, it simply shows that talent has very little to do with things; luck and nepotism are much stronger allies.

There is also the third argument that art is subjective. Just because a piece doesn’t speak to us, it doesn’t mean that another person won’t fall in love with it.

I am getting to know the names of more people around school, talking to more and more people. However, ever since day one, I remain in the same group of friends, which has even narrowed a bit. We still have lunch with everyone, but Lena, Austin, and I spend more time together as the three of us than with other people.

I mean… sometimes with Noah, but… Noah is Noah and he spends as much time with us as he does with Emma, his other friends, or even alone.

The good thing about Noah is that he is a bit like magic – at least according to me – so he always fits back in. It doesn’t matter if we barely see him in days, that he missed 20 inside jokes, or that one of us – them, really – shared something a bit personal when he wasn’t here. Whenever he comes back, he easily slides into the conversation and joins in as if he hadn’t missed any of it.

Whereas if I daydream for five minutes, I feel like I just started a movie halfway through.

It’s been months now, and I think I finally embraced moving here. I believe that, Peter aside, I am happier here than I was there. Generally, it feels like I am moving forward. The one thing that remains the same is life at home.

My parents are still this awkward mix between being stuck in a past that will never be again and hoping for a future that might not come. They are never truly here with me. Some evenings, when we talk over dinner, it almost feels like they genuinely see me and care about my everyday life. But then something happens, something that usually reminds us about Peter, and one of us withdraws. The rest of the evening returns to being fake and forced. I take my pills on those evenings.

Today, Noah shows up for a study session, which is a bit surprising because we never make plans on weekends. From what I gather, Saturdays are Emma’s. Not today, apparently.

We are not doing English today. Instead, he needs help with math. So, we are in my room, doing numbers.

I just realized how difficult it is to explain something you are good at. I’m not trying to praise myself in any way; I just mean that I have to try in English, so I understand the struggles. Math, however, just speaks to me, so it’s harder to spot things that could confuse someone. I really struggle to find the correct level of empathy without sounding arrogant or patronizing.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize after a while. He looks genuinely confused, so I add, “I don’t think we’re making as much progress as we usually do with English.”

“That’s my fault,” he says. “I’m not the most academic person. Plus, you’re taking time to help me so regardless of the progress we do or don’t make, I’m very grateful. And I did understand some new things today. I’m not sure I’ll remember them, but at least I’ve done most of the homework.”

I’m about to say something when his phone rings. It’s Emma. Again. Just like the last three times, he screens her. I’m curious, but I’m not brave enough to ask. “Should we take a break?” he asks.

“Sure. Do you want something to eat?”

“Did your mom make cookies?” he asks. I understand that there is more than it seems in that question. He is checking up on her – or on me.

“She did. Do you want some?”

“I would love some. They were delicious.”

“Wait until you try her brownies then,” I reply. “I might be biased, but they are to die for.”

“I can’t wait,” he declares.

The way he looks at me makes me shiver. I don’t think he cares about the brownies. I think that he is talking about her getting better. These little moments that we’ve shared since I told him about Peter genuinely make me feel less lonely.

When I come back with the cookies, he is packing all his stuff.

“Changed your mind?” I ask.

“About what?”

“Cookies.”

“Absolutely not. I changed my mind about homework. Is it cool if we just hang out?”

As if any part of me wanted to say no to that. “Sure.”

As I hand him the plate, he eyes me with mischief. “So… can I snoop in your box again?”

“No,” I deny.

It’s a question he asks every time he comes over, and I always tell him no. I don’t really mind if Noah knows more about me, but I just… don’t want to have to explain Matt to him. I thought about simply taking the pictures out of the box, but that seemed dishonest. After everything he has done for me, I don’t want to be dishonest with Noah.

Not that I’m particularly honest either…