Star-Crossed ✔️

21

- 21 -

When Noah was twelve, he was everything. He was rambunctious, and loud, and lively. He was kind, and funny, and could light up the room. He was smart, but not too smart, and witty.

He was everything except reserved.

The day I was scheduled to meet him for our very first table read, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I didn't have half of a clue what Road to Serendipity was even about. All I had was the audition script to base my guesses off of. I knew I'd have a costar with a nondescript age and gender and that was it. In all honestly, I was expecting a girl.

But then Noah showed up and I couldn't imagine anyone else sharing the spotlight with me. He just made the perfect Peter to my Max. His eccentricity, his mannerisms and the expressions on his face: he was perfect. For the role, I mean. I had never had that kind of chemistry with a costar before. It was electric the way we could control the room together, keep everyone's eyes on us.

And off set, he was even more amazing. His energy, the way that, even at twelve years old, he could make anybody stop what they were doing and listen to what he had to say. He was a flame burning brighter than any I'd ever seen.

I did not notice when that flame began to flicker even though it was right under my nose. For four years, that happy boy morphed into a broken young man. As we got more famous, the less we saw of each other. I could have noticed the flickering flame eventually snuff out—if I had been paying any attention. Then when we stopped talking at sixteen for whatever stupid fucking reason, I forgot about Noah.

Whether it was on purpose or from the hands of time, I pushed the entire friendship to the very back of my mind. I should have been there.

I looked at him closely, my eyes always finding the curve of his top lip as a focus point when he spoke. He was rolling up a joint for the two of us to share before the weight of our impending conversation collapsed on our shoulders. Noah sucked his bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it to lick the rolling paper.

"Stop staring at me or I'll pussy out," he said, not even looking at me. The corner of his mouth was curving up, though, so I knew he was half-joking. Still, I followed his orders and looked away. I didn't want him to shut down again. "Can you put something on the TV? This is awkward."

I put some random Youtube music radio on and, ironically, my song came on. "God damn it," I mumbled, changing the station.

"It's so weird to me how famous you are," he said, twisting the end of the joint and inspecting it for any tears.

"Me, too," I said honestly. "You are, too."

"Not for the same reasons," he mumbled, reaching for the lighter to his left. "I get tagged in screenshots of my mugshot and things like, 'Child Stars who Fell Off the Face of the Earth.' You get tagged in videos of your world tour and red carpet pictures. We are not the same."

"I know, I'm sorry."

Noah lit the joint, the red cherry lighting up his face and sending orangey shadows under his eyes in the dimly lit bus. While it was daylight outside, I had drawn the curtains to give us a more intimate, private feel for our conversation. It was just to make Noah feel comfortable and safe.

I watched the smoke filter past his lips. "Guess I should just start," he chuckled nervously, no humor detected in the sound. I shrugged as he passed me the joint. "I just . . . I've only ever talked about this in therapy, okay? I'm gonna get into some fucked up stuff and you can't—" He paused, sighing frustratedly. "Just don't feel bad for me, okay? It is what it is and . . . yeah. Just shut up and listen, okay? That's all I ask."