Elio (Age 16): 2006 

Max is sprawled across my bedroom rug like he owns the place, a mechanical pencil twirling in his fingers as he stares at our chemistry notes like they’re written in an alien language. I’m sitting at my desk, notebook open, trying to highlight only the important stuff. 

My room smells faintly of old books and the lemon cleaner Mom uses every Saturday. The evening sun filters through the brownstone’s tall windows, casting long stripes of orange across the walls. From outside, I can hear the sound of kids playing on the sidewalk, someone’s radio, and the soft rumble of the Q train in the distance. 

Max groans dramatically. “Elio, I swear, if molarity shows up on this test, I’m dropping out and becoming a street performer.” 

I glance over my shoulder. “Max, you can’t even juggle.” 

“I’ll learn.” He lifts his head like he’s about to mime juggling, then drops back to the carpet with a sigh. “It’s safer than chemistry.” 

“You’re being ridiculous,” I say, but I’m smiling as I underline another definition. “You just need to stop mixing up moles and molarity.” 

“Those are the same thing,” he says with total confidence. 

I spin around in my desk chair. “No. No, they are not.”

He opens his mouth-probably to argue, because that’s his favorite hobby, when the door swings open without a knock. 

Gia steps in, already mid-sentence. “Dinner’s almost-” She stops when she sees Max on the floor, papers everywhere. “You two look like a stationary store exploded.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too, Gia.” 

She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. She’s taller than she was last year, almost eye level with me, it’s weird, and she has her long hair in two braids instead of her normal dance buns. She also thinks she is automatically cooler now that she is a real teenager and acts like it. 

“Mom said ten minutes. And Max?”

He looks up. “Yeah?”

She points at his notebook. “You highlighted a whole page. That defends the purpose.”

Max flips his notebook close in defeat. “Thank you, Gia. Truely. The support is overwhelming.” 

She smirks. “I’m just making sure you don’t fail.”

“Too late for that.” he mutters.

I throw a wadded up scrap of paper at him. “Can we please get through one chapter before dinner?”

Gia pushes off the doorframe. “Good luck, Try not to melt your brains.” She disappears down the hall, her footsteps echo down the stairs.

Max waits until she is fully gone before whispering. “Your sister scares me.”

I snort-laugh. “She’s thirteen, she’s supposed to.”

He gives me a look like I’ve told him that water is optional for survival. “Thirteen year old girls are terrifying, Elio. It’s a known fact.” 

I shake my head and turn back towards my notebook. “Focus. Come on. What’s the formula for morality?” 

Max groans again, but he sits up and drags his notes closer. “Fine. Fine. Moles over liters. Happy?”

“Very.”

He nudges my ankle with his foot. “Thanks for helping me. You know you don’t have to.”

“I know,” I say lightly, though something warm settles in my chest. “But someone has to make sure you pass.” 

He flashes me that crooked smile of his, the one that’s been getting him out of trouble since kindergarten. “Good thing you’ve been stuck with since we were five.” 

“Eleven years,” I say. “I deserve a medal.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “I’ll get you one if I pass this test.”

“You better.” 

From downstairs, I hear Mom calling our names, loudly, in that if you don’t get down here tone. 

Max gathers his papers with a defended sigh. “Saved by dinner.” 

“For now,” I say, “We’ll finish after.”

He groans again, but he follows me anyway.

Because he always does. 

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits us the second we reach the bottom of the stairs. Mom’s cooking always fills the whole house, like the walls themselves have learned to hold favor. Max practically floats towards the kitchen as if pulled by scent alone. 

Dad is already setting the table, humming something under his breath. Gia’s perched on a counter stool, pretending she’s not starving even though she keeps sneaking glances at the pot on the stove. 

Mom looks up from the pan she is stirring. “Finalmente! You boys took forever.” Then her gaze lands on Max, and her whole face softens like it always does with him. “Ciao, caro. Are you staying for dinner?”

Max rubs the back of his neck. “If it’s okay, Mrs. Rizzo.” 

She waves a wooden spoon at him. “Of course, it’s okay. You hardly ever eat enough at home. Sit. Mangiare.” 

He sits immediately, no hesitation. Max may question chemistry, physics, and the meaning of life, but he never questions my mother when food is involved. 

Dad glances over his shoulder. “Max, your folks know you’re here, right?”

“Yep,” Max say, “My mom said to tell you thanks, Mr. Rizzo.”

Dad nods approvingly. “Good, You’re always welcome.”

Mom sets a bowl of pasta in the center of the table, followed by a tray of roasted vegetables. “Elio, get the bread from the oven.And be careful, it’s hot.”

“Got it,” I say, grabbing oven mitts and pulling out the golden loaf. The heat warms my face, and for a moment I just breathe in the familiar, comforting smell. 

We all gather around the table- Dad at the head, Mom beside him, Gia across from me, and Max dropping into the chair next to mine. 

As Dad picks up the serving spoon, Mom looks at Max again. “So, tesoro, are you staying the night too? You boys have a test tomorrow, right?”

Max blinks. “Um-only if it's not a problem?”

Mom smiles in that you’re practically one of my children way. “It’s never a problem. I can make up the guest bed after dinner.”

Gia snorts. “He’s here more than he’s at his own house.”

Max shoots her a dramatic glare. “I’m offended.”

“You’ll live,” she says, stabbing a piece of broccoli with unnecessary force.

Dad serves us all generous portions, then raises his glass of water. “Good food, a quiet evening, and hopefully passing grades.” 

“Cheers,” Max says, tapping his glass against mine.

I grin. “We’ll pass.”

“You will,” Gia says smugly. “Max depends on you.” 

“Wow,” Max mutters. “Everyone thinks so highly of me tonight.” 

Mom pats his cheek affectionately. “We love you anyway.” 

Dinner ends the way it always does-Dad leaning back in his chair declaring he’s eaten too much. Mom brushing crumbs from the table while insisting he hasn’t eaten enough, and Gia sneaking the last piece of bread when he thinks no one’s looking. 

When everyone gets up, I start gathering dishes automatically. It’s my turn tonight. Max stands too, already collecting glasses like it’s some unspoken tradition we’ve shared forever. 

“You don’t have to help,” I tell him as we bring everything into the kitchen.

Max shrugs. “I practically live here. Might as well earn my keep.”

 I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling as I turn on the faucet. Warm water splashes over my hands, steam rising in lazy swirls. The window over the sink shows the darkening street-glowing street lamps, a few neighbors walking dogs, the silhouette of the brownstone across from ours. It’s calm. Familiar. 

Max leans against the counter beside me, grabbing a dishtowel. “So,” he says casually, “on a scale from one to ten, how doomed are we for this chemistry test?”

I soap up a plate. “You’re a three. I’m at six.”

“Rude.”

“You asked.”

He bumps his shoulder against mine. “I’m improving though.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “You are.”

There’s a brief silence while I rinse the plate and hand it to him. Our fingers brush, nothing unusual, but it sparks a tiny warmth anyway. 

Behind us, I hear Mom soft steps as she moves around the dining room. Dad and Gia are arguing about what movie to put on later. The whole house feels alive, the kind of evening glow that makes everything feel less stressful. 

Max dries the plate absentmindedly. “Your mom’s food is way too good. I’m going to fail the test because I’m in a food coma.”

“Excuses,” I say, grabbing another plate.

“Valid excuses,” he counters, pointing the towel at me like a sword.

I laugh under my breath. “Focus, Foster.”

He grins. “Yes, sir.”

We fall into a rhythm-me washing, him drying. It’s easy. Natural. We’ve been doing this since we were little.”

After a minute, Max glances toward the doorway to make sure no one is listening. “Hey. Thanks again…for helping me study.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. I’m saying it again.”

I pause, my hands submerged in the warm suds. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I kinda do.”

Something in his voice makes me look at him. Not joking, not dramatic-just genuine. 

“You’re my best friend, Elio. You always have been.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. I swallow and look back at the sink so I don’t do something stupid like look emotional over dish soap. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “You too.”

He nudges my arm again, lighter this time. “Just making sure you know.”

“I know.” 

He smiles-smaller, softer than usual-and goes back to drying dishes.

I steady my breathing, focusing on the warm water, on the quiet clicks of ceramic, on the safe familiarly of Max standing beside me.  

Gia’s voice rings out from the living room. “Are you two done yet? We’re watching a movie!”

Max calls back, “Almost!”

I shake my head. “She has no patience.”

“She’s thirteen,” Max says. “It’s a personality trait.”

We finish the last dish together, our hands moving in sync like they’ve been doing this our whole life. 

Max-

Elio’s room is dim except for the small desk lamp glowing in the corner, casting a soft circle of yellow light over the open textbooks and scattered papers. We actually did study for a while-longer than I expected considering how full we were from dinner. But eventually Mrs. Rizzo came upstairs, tapped on the door, and told us it was time to “wind down,” which is parent code for stop pretending you're still studying and go to sleep already.

  Now the room is quiet, still buzzing faintly with the hum of the radiator. I lie on my back in Elio’s bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands folded over my stomach. The mattress is warm, the blankets soft, and everything smells like him-clean laundry, a hint of coconut shampoo, and whatever books he is always disappearing into. 

He fell asleep fast. Like…ridiculously fast. One second he was telling me we should go over the practice problems again in the morning, and the next he is curled toward me, breathing slow and steady, completely gone. 

I turn my head a little, careful not to move too much. His curls spill across the pillow between us, soft and messy from the long day. His glasses are on the nightstand, folded neatly the way he always sets them down. Without him he looks younger. Peaceful. His face relaxes in sleep in a way it doesn’t when he’s awake and worrying about everything-school, his sister, disappointing his parents, the whole world.

I’ve known him forever. Since we were five at that baseball game. And yet sometimes, moments like this, when the room is quiet and the room is warm and he’s inches away, it hits me how much a part of my life he’s become. 

How much I need him.

I shift slightly, turning to my side so I’m facing him. His breaths are soft, barely audible, his mouth parted just a little. One hand is tucked under his cheek, the other resting between us. His fingers twitch in his sleep-he does that when he’s dreaming. 

I wonder what he dreams about. 

Probably something logical and responsible, like passing chemistry or reorganizing the bookshelf he claims isn’t organized correctly even though it totally is.

A small smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it.

I close my eyes, then open them again almost immediately. I’m too awake. Maybe it’s the test tomorrow. Maybe it’s being in his room, surrounded by his stuff, knowing he trusts me enough to fall asleep next to me like it’s nothing. 

Maybe it’s something else I’m not ready to admit out loud. 

The house is still alive in the distance-Gia’s TV still murmuring from her room, Mr. Rizzo walking downstairs, the faint clatter of Mrs. Rizzo in the kitchen cleaning up what little mess we left behind. But up here, in this room, it feels like the world has shrunk to the size of this bed, this quiet, this moment.

Elio shifts slightly and his hand brushes my arm. Just barely. But enough.

I hold perfectly still.

His breathing steadies again.

My chest feels tight in a way I can’t explain, even to myself.

I whisper into the dim room, even though I know he won’t hear me: “Goodnight, Elio.”