Some days, he complained about homework.
Other days, he said almost nothing.
He never demanded that I explain why I was sad.
He never tried to convince me everything was fine.
He just made sure I wasn’t sitting alone.
Years later, when I failed my first driving test, Noah showed up at my house holding two ice creams.
I looked at the cups in his hands.
“Why two?”
He handed me one.
“This one is because you tried.”
“And the second?”
He took a bite.
“Because you were terrible.”
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped mine.
Another time, I came close to giving up painting after someone at school laughed at a piece I’d worked on for weeks.
The next morning, I discovered that Noah had taken one of the ugliest dinosaur drawings I’d ever made and taped it inside his locker.
I stared at it.
“Why is that there?”
“So you don’t quit.”
I pointed at the drawing.
“Noah, that dinosaur is awful.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Very awful.”
“Then why keep it?”
“Because if you stop drawing now, your dinosaurs will always look like potatoes with arms.”
That was Noah.
He didn’t fix my problems.
He didn’t pretend pain wasn’t real.
He simply refused to disappear when things became difficult.
So by the time senior prom arrived, I didn’t need to think about who I wanted to go with.
Noah still decided to remind me anyway.
One afternoon, he appeared beside my locker with an unusually serious expression.
