Growing up didn’t pull us apart the way people often assume childhood friendships will.
We changed.
Our interests changed.
Our schedules changed.
But somehow, Noah and I kept finding our way back to each other.
He became obsessed with baseball statistics.
I became obsessed with art.
He could talk for half an hour about batting averages and pitchers.
I could spend the same amount of time discussing color, brushwork, and paintings he insisted all looked “unfinished.”
He dragged me through baseball conversations.
I dragged him through museums.
Neither of us ever convinced the other that our hobby was better.
When we were twelve, my parents divorced.
That was the first time Noah saw me become someone quieter.
Dad moved out.
Mom tried to hide how much she was hurting, but sometimes I would walk past her room and hear her crying.
At school, I stopped eating much.
I spoke less.
I avoided friends.
Most people asked questions.
Noah didn’t.
He simply started sitting next to me at lunch.
Some days, he talked about baseball.
