Chapter 12 Liam #2
"Same pattern." He nodded slowly. "Which means it might be the same person. And that person has been watching you for a while."
The words sat heavy in the room. The radiator clicked. Someone's music thumped through the wall.
"We're going to figure out who it is," Noah said. "Chris is good. If there's a trail, he'll find it."
"Okay."
"But Liam—" He paused. Chose his words carefully. The way he did before delivering an argument he knew would be unpopular. "Can I say something you don't want to hear?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"This person has power over you because you're hiding. That's the leverage. The photo, the texts—none of it matters if people already know. If you were out, that photo is just... two guys kissing. There's no threat in it."
"Noah—"
"I'm not telling you to come out. That's your decision. Your timing." He held up his hand. "But I need you to understand the math. The longer the secret exists, the more power anyone with information has over you. Every day you hide is another day someone can hold this over your head."
"So what—I just announce it? Walk into the boathouse and say hey everyone, I'm bi and I've been fucking Alex Harrington?"
"That's one approach. Lacks finesse."
"This isn't funny, Noah."
"I know it's not." His voice softened. "I know. And I'm not making light of it. I'm telling you what I see—which is my best friend getting smaller every week. The lying. The performing. You're disappearing into this secret and it's eating you alive."
I stared at the floor. The carpet was stained near the door—coffee, from the first week of freshman year when Noah had tripped over my shoes. We'd never cleaned it. It was part of the room now.
Noah leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. And then his voice changed—harder, frustrated in a way that wasn't about the photo anymore.
"You know what gets me, though? You walk in here after three days and the first thing you do is hand me your problem. Not hey Noah, how are you. Not what have I missed. Just—here, fix this for me."
I looked up. "What?"
"Do you even know what's going on in my life right now?"
"Yeah. You're doing the debate thing."
"The debate thing." He repeated it. Let the words hang there.
"What?"
"This is what I'm talking about, Liam. You get into all of this—the secret, the threat, the Alex of it all—and then you don't give a shit about anyone else. I'm your best friend. And you call the biggest tournament of my semester 'the debate thing.'"
His words hit me in the chest. A dull, heavy impact. Because he was right. I was doing it again. Being the worst version of myself—the version that only looked outward when he needed something.
I defended myself anyway. "Well, you haven't been here."
"And you don't know why."
"You've been with some girl—"
"Some girl." Noah tightened. "Her name is Priya. And she's not some girl. I've been seeing her for three weeks. She's in my political theory seminar and she's the smartest person I've ever met and I think I'm falling for her. But you wouldn't know any of that because you never asked."
The room went quiet. The radiator clicked. I could hear my own breathing.
"I've came back wanting to tell you about her—" Noah said.
"Then tell me—"
Noah continued. "And it's sad that I'm not surprised that you didn't ask. Because your thing is always bigger. Your thing always matters more."
"That's not—"
"It is, though. It is exactly that." He wasn't yelling. That was the worst part. He was just tired. "I still feel like I only exist when you need something."
I sat there. Let it land. Let all of it land.
He was right. Not partially right, not right with caveats. Just right. I'd walked in here carrying my crisis like it was the only thing in the world that mattered, and I'd handed it to Noah like he was a tool—something to use, not someone to see.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I mean it," I said.
"I don't want sorry. I want you to actually give a shit. Ask me about her. For real."
"Tell me about Priya. Actually—" I stood up. "Let's go to the dining hall. I just got a refill on my card. Dinner's on me. You talk, I listen."
Noah looked at me for a long moment, like he was deciding whether I meant it.
"You're buying?"
"I'm buying."
"With what, your scholarship money?"
"With my genuine desire to be a better friend. And also the meal plan refill, yeah."
Something loosened in his face. Not all the way—the frustration was still there, banked like coals—but enough. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.
"I'll talk to Chris tomorrow," he said, pocketing his phone. "About the number. We'll figure it out."
"Okay."
"But tonight you're listening to me talk about Priya for at least forty-five minutes. Non-negotiable."
"Deal."
"And you're going to ask follow-up questions. Real ones. Not the nodding thing you do where you're clearly thinking about something else."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do that."
We walked out into the hallway. The dorm was loud—someone's music bleeding through a door, a group arguing about something in the common room, the ordinary sounds of a Thursday night that I'd stopped hearing weeks ago.
"So," I said as we hit the stairs. "Tell me about Priya."
And Noah did. All the way across the quad, through the dining hall line, and for the better part of an hour over trays of mediocre pasta and decent coffee.
He told me about the political theory seminar where they'd first argued, and the coffee that turned into three hours.
He told me she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking and that she'd texted him three times today and that he thought it might be something real.
I listened. Asked the follow-up questions. Watched my best friend light up talking about someone who made him smarter and happier and more himself, and I thought about how close I'd come to missing all of it.
I ate. Not much, but enough.
And underneath the food and the conversation and the normalcy of a Friday night dinner with my roommate, Noah's words sat in my chest like a stone I couldn't swallow.
The longer the secret exists, the more power anyone with information has over you.
He was right. And I'd been so consumed by my own hiding that I hadn't even seen him standing right in front of me, waiting to be seen back.
But knowing he was right and being ready to do something about it were two very different things.
And I wasn't ready.
Not yet.