Chapter 8 — Streetlight Hands
Daniel insisted Noah and I come home together.
Not as a discussion.
As a rule.
“You’re both at Central,” he said over dinner. “You leave together.”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t argue.
He just nodded once and pushed peas around his plate like they were something he could control.
After school, he waited near the front gate.
He stood a few yards away from where I stopped, not close enough to look like we belonged together, not far enough to pretend we didn’t.
A compromise made of distance.
We walked.
Noah kept his hands in his pockets.
His shoulders stayed forward, as if the wind had weight.
I walked slightly behind him without meaning to.
Not chasing.
Not matching.
Just… following.
The streetlights flickered on one by one as the sky darkened.
Their glow laid gold circles onto the sidewalk, uneven and soft at the edges.
Our shadows stretched long in front of us.
Two dark shapes moving in the same direction, never touching.
At the first light, I did it without thinking.
I angled my steps so my shadow’s hand brushed his.
A childish trick.
A quiet lie.
For half a second, it worked.
Our shadow-fingers overlapped.
It looked like holding hands.
My throat tightened.
I did it again under the next light.
Then again.
Each time, I felt both comforted and ashamed, like I was stealing warmth from something that wasn’t offered.
Noah didn’t speak.
But his pace changed.
Slightly faster.
Not running.
Just enough to stretch the gap so my shadow couldn’t reach.
I slowed.
He didn’t.
The distance returned.
A lesson delivered without words.
Halfway home, a car passed, headlights washing the sidewalk white.
Our shadows vanished completely for a moment.
When they returned, they were shorter.
Separated.
I swallowed hard.
Kept walking anyway.
At the corner near our street, Noah stopped.
He didn’t turn to face me fully.
His voice came out low, controlled.
“Don’t tell them about school,” he said.
I nodded.
“I won’t.”
That was all.
We entered the house together.
The front door closed behind us.
Inside, Marianne’s cooking filled the air—garlic, onions, warmth trying to pretend the world was simple.
Noah hung his jacket up with care.
The hook clicked softly.
Then he went upstairs without looking back.
I stood in the hallway for a second too long, staring at the coat he’d left behind.
As if it were him.
As if it were permission.
In my room, I opened my drawer and touched the jade charm.
Just the edge.
Cool against my fingertip.
A small, steady weight.
I let it sit in my palm until the shape of it printed into my skin.
Then I put it back.
Turned off the light.
And told myself I wouldn’t chase shadows tomorrow.
But I already knew I would.