fri’s mind

this is where i’ll be collecting everything from this universe: fics, blurbs, imagines, text aus, twitter aus, family moments, fights, reconciliations, domestic chaos, and all the little scenes that slowly build their life together.

— the beginning their first meetings, the early tension, the fashion show, gene’s gig, the first real date, the “we’re not serious but we’re definitely not casual” stage, jealousy, situationship mess, and the moment liam starts learning what loyalty actually means with her.

runway lights first date exclusive — domestic era living together, figuring out where reader fits inside a life liam already had, silly fights, late-night conversations, tea, television, wine, overprotective liam, and the strange tenderness of building a home.

you have to listen stress relief up the blues

— swiftie reader lore liam suffering through taylor references, documentaries, songs, concerts, emotional storytelling, and slowly accepting that he is, unfortunately, dating a swiftie.

blondie hyperfixation happy birthday

— family & friends lennon, gene, molly, noel, peggy, paul, clara, julia, reader’s parents, and everyone else orbiting this relationship with varying levels of emotional maturity and absolute chaos.

meeting the parents gossip girl family circus

— text aus / twitter aus because liam cannot text normally, cannot sext properly, cannot keep domestic problems off twitter, and absolutely cannot stop being publicly dramatic.

text - au

— baby gallagher all the baby-related fics, blurbs, imagines and text aus are collected separately here.

this universe is messy, soft, funny, complicated, and very much built around the idea that love doesn’t magically fix people — but sometimes it makes them want to try.

Ever since I had started seeing Liam, I had disappeared a little from the kind of girls’ nights we used to have all the time. Not on purpose. Not because I didn’t care. It was just what happened sometimes when life shifted and suddenly there was someone waiting at home, someone taking up space in your days, someone you wanted to see before you even realised you were making room for him. They were understanding about it. But they were also Clara and Julia, which meant they were going to make it my problem. They wanted dinner, wine, gossip, and, most importantly, to finally see the house I kept talking about like it was some mythical place where I had accidentally become domestic with Liam Gallagher.

So, one Thursday night, I invited them over. Nothing formal. No big dinner party. Just the three of us, takeaway, wine, face masks, nail polish on the kitchen table, and the kind of gossip that required several pauses, dramatic gasps, and at least one person saying, “No, wait, go back.”

Liam was supposed to be out. That had been the plan. Not because I was hiding him. They knew about him. They knew too much, actually. But this was meant to be a girls’ night, and Liam had told me he had something with the boys, or work, or one of those vague plans men over fifty used when they didn’t feel like explaining themselves properly.

So when the front door opened barely an hour into our second bottle of wine, all three of us looked up.

Liam walked in like it was the most normal thing in the world. Jacket half off, hair a little messy, face already set in that expression he wore when he knew he was entering a room full of women and therefore entering a legal minefield.

The kitchen went quiet. Clara froze with a nail polish brush in one hand. Julia, who had been mid-sentence and mid-scandal, closed her mouth for the first time in twenty minutes.

I just smiled. “Hi, baby.”

Liam looked at me first. Then at the table. Then at the face masks, the wine, the open takeaway containers, the nail polish, and my two best friends staring at him like an urban legend had just come home early.

“Alright,” he said. Very Liam.

I lifted my glass toward him. “Girls, Liam. Liam, my girls.”

Clara blinked herself back into consciousness. “Hi.”

Julia smiled too quickly. “Hi. Sorry. This is weird.”

Liam frowned. “What is?”

“You,” she said, then immediately looked horrified. “Not you. I mean— obviously you. But like, you here.”

Clara covered her face. “Oh my God.”

I started laughing.

Liam just looked at Julia for a second, then shrugged. “I live here.”

That somehow made it worse. Julia nodded with the seriousness of a person trying not to embarrass herself in front of a man whose voice had soundtracked half of Britain.

“Right. Yes. Of course. Very normal.”

“It is,” I said, enjoying this far too much.

Liam’s eyes moved to me, half a smile on his face. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m glowing.”

“You’ve got green stuff on your face.”

“It’s skincare.”

“Looks like illness.”

Clara laughed then, which broke the spell a little. Julia exhaled, relieved, and just like that the room started breathing again.

Liam leaned down to kiss the top of my head before heading toward the living room. “Carry on,” he said.

“Don’t listen,” I warned.

He didn’t even look back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Which meant, of course, that he was gonna hear everything.

At first, he tried to be subtle about it. The television came on in the living room, but low. Suspiciously low. I could see the back of his head from the kitchen table, still and alert in a way no man watching television had ever been.

Clara picked up exactly where she had left off, because Clara had the survival instincts of a moth near a lamp. “So, anyway, he says he and his girlfriend are ‘basically done,’ which, first of all, men love saying basically when they mean absolutely not—”

Julia slammed her hand on the table. “Exactly.”

I took a sip of wine. “What did he actually say?”

Clara pulled out her phone like she was presenting evidence in court. “No, because I have screenshots.”

From the living room, Liam shifted, barely. But I saw it, Julia saw it too. Her eyes flicked toward him, then back to Clara.

Clara read the message out loud, putting on a terrible low voice. “I miss your energy.”

Julia groaned. “Oh, babe. No.”

“What?”

“If a man says he misses your energy at two in the morning, he means he wants to fuck you.” There was a beat. Then Julia’s eyes went wide. “He can hear me.”

I pressed my lips together. Clara turned bright red.

Julia leaned back and shouted toward the living room. “Sorry, Liam!”

Without looking away from the television, Liam said, “You're right though.”

The kitchen exploded. Clara dropped her phone. Julia nearly fell out of her chair. I laughed so hard I had to put my glass down before I spilled it everywhere.

I turned in my seat and looked at him. “So you are listening.”

“No.”

“You just answered.”

“Television said it.”

I stared at the back of his head for a second. Then, because I was tipsy enough to be mean and loved him enough to know exactly where to press, I looked at Clara and Julia and gave them the smallest wink.

They caught it immediately. Bless them.

I leaned back in my chair, loud enough for the living room to hear. “Anyway, speaking of men with questionable timing…”

Clara’s eyes widened with delight. Julia pressed her lips together, already trying not to laugh.

“Oh no,” Clara said, playing along. “Are we talking about him?”

“Which him?” Julia asked, far too innocently.

“My ex,” I said, dragging the words just enough.

From the living room, Liam went very still.

I kept going. “Because the thing is, he was a nightmare emotionally, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Clara nodded.

“Terrible communication,” Julia added.

“Awful,” I agreed. “But the sex?” I sighed, wistful and cruel. “Fantastic.”

Clara gasped dramatically. Julia slapped a hand over her mouth.

The television suddenly meant absolutely nothing. Liam turned around. “Alright,” he said, pointing toward the kitchen. “Yes, I’m listenin’. What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

That was it. We lost it. All three of us burst out laughing so loudly that even he had to fight the smile tugging at his mouth, though he looked deeply offended on principle.

I took another sip of wine, glowing with victory. “Nothing, baby. Television said it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t baby me when you’re talkin’ about your ex.”

“Oh, so now you can hear?”

“I heard enough.”

Julia leaned forward, grinning. “Do you want context?”

“No,” he said immediately. Then paused. “Actually, yeah. Who’s the ex?”

I pointed at him. “There it is.”

He stood up from the sofa, muttering something under his breath, and walked into the kitchen like a man who had been forced into gossip against his will and not like someone who had just been successfully baited.

“I’m not gossipin’,” he said, already reaching for the empty chair.

“You are literally joining us.”

“I’m supervisin’.”

Clara slid the wine bottle toward him. “We have more.”

He looked at the bottle. Then at me. Then at the chair. I smiled sweetly. Five seconds later, Liam was sitting at the kitchen table with us, a glass of wine in front of him and the expression of a man who had been forced into something he absolutely wanted to do.

“Right,” he said, leaning back. “Start again.”

Julia clapped once. “I love him.”

“Me too girl,” I said.

Liam ignored both of us. “Which one’s Tom?”

Clara opened her mouth.

Julia cut in. “No, wait, you need context.”

“Why’s there always context?”

“Because men are messy.”

He nodded slowly. “Fair.”

For the next two hours, Liam Gallagher sat at our kitchen table and listened to the full emotional history of Clara and Tom, Julia and her gym situationship, and a third girl called Sophie who wasn’t present but whose terrible boyfriend somehow became the evening’s main antagonist.

He gave opinions he had no right giving, he asked for clarification, he remembered names with alarming accuracy, he sided with Julia more than anyone expected and he told Clara she needed to block Tom, then immediately softened it with, “Or don’t, but don’t come cryin’ when he acts like a dickhead again.”

Clara stared at him. “That was… actually good advice.”

He shrugged. “I know things.”

“You do not,” I said.

“I know men.”

“That’s worse.”

At some point, Julia asked if he had always been this involved in women’s business.

He said, “I’ve got a daughter,” which shut everyone up for half a second. Then he leaned back in his chair, took a sip of wine, and added, “And I’ve caused enough problems bein’ a dickhead meself. Recognise the signs.”

I stared at him, somewhere between amused and horrified. “That’s growth, I suppose.”

“It is,” he said.

That felt accurate enough that no one challenged it.

By the time Clara and Julia finally left, the kitchen looked like a small tornado had hit a beauty salon. Empty glasses, half-eaten food, cotton pads, nail polish, one abandoned face mask packet, and Liam standing in the middle of it all with his arms crossed, still thinking.

He had barely said goodbye before he started again. “I don’t like Tom.”

I closed the door and turned around. “Hello to you too.”

“He’s a knobhead.”

I laughed and walked straight back to him instead of toward the kitchen. I grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. Liam made a surprised noise against my mouth, one hand automatically settling at my waist.

“Hi,” I murmured.

“Hi.”

I kissed him again. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was seeing him spend two hours being unexpectedly sweet with my friends. Maybe it was watching Liam Gallagher become emotionally invested in three women’s dating disasters. Whatever it was, I was suddenly very aware that he looked unfairly good standing in our kitchen. My boyfriend. My ridiculously attractive boyfriend.

Then, somehow, between kisses, he said, “Still think Clara should block him.”

I pulled back. “Are you serious?”

“He’s a dickhead.”

I stared at him. Then started laughing. “Liam.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to kiss you.”

“I know.”

“Then stop thinking about Tom.”

“I can’t. He’s annoyin’.”

I groaned dramatically and kissed him again anyway.

For a few seconds, he cooperated. Then: “Also that gym fella—”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You have to let this go.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

I pressed another kiss to his jaw. “Stop saying.”

“He’s clearly stringin’ her along.”

“Baby.”

“She deserves better.”

I looked up at him. He looked genuinely concerned. Not for himself. Not for us. For Julia’s stupid situationship.

I felt my heart melt so fast it was embarrassing. “You’re impossible.”

“I care about people.”

“You care about gossip.”

“I care about justice.”

That made me laugh hard enough that I nearly missed his smile. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him again, slower this time. His hands settled on my hips. Progress.

Then he murmured against my mouth, “And Sophie’s boyfriend—”

I pulled away immediately. “Do you want me to stop kissing you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Because I can call the girls back.”

“Don’t.”

“We can keep gossiping.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We can sit at the kitchen table and discuss Tom.”

“Or,” I continued sweetly, running my hands down his chest, “we can have a proper adult night.”

His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I stepped closer, letting my fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “One that doesn’t involve Tom, or Clara’s screenshots, or Julia’s gym boy.”

His mouth twitched. “What does it involve then?”

I looked up at him.

“You. Me. And the hottest man in the world remembering he’s supposed to be kissing me.”

His expression cracked instantly. The concern. The analysis. The amateur relationship counseling. All gone. Replaced by the look that always appeared when I caught him off guard.

“Right,” he muttered, hands tightening at my waist. “That’s enough.”

I smiled. “Enough gossip?”

“Enough talkin’.”

“Fuck Tom?”

He pulled me against him. “Fuck Tom.”

“Poor Clara.”

“Wish her the best.”

The house was too loud for a secret.

There were too many voices overlapping, too many plates being passed around, too many people moving through Liam’s kitchen like they had known the place longer than I had. Peggy was talking to Paul near the counter, Noel was leaning back in his chair with that look of permanent judgment, Anaïs was laughing at something Sonny had said, Donovan and Gene were arguing over something that sounded important to absolutely no one else. Lennon was quieter, watching the room the way he did when he already knew too much. Molly sat with her partner beside her, the baby being passed from one pair of arms to another like the most precious and exhausting parcel in the world. Gene’s girlfriend was there too, folded naturally into the noise, smiling at him every time he tried too hard to look casual.

My parents were there. Clara and Julia too, which somehow made me both calmer and worse. They kept looking at me like they knew something was coming, even though they didn’t. Or maybe they just knew me too well.

The only people in that room who already knew were Liam’s children and Noel.

Lennon, Gene, and Molly had been carrying the secret carefully for weeks. Noel had known since the night Liam had called him in panic, which he kept pretending made him noble and not simply unbearable.

Everyone else was just eating, laughing, talking. Existing around the thing that had been living quietly between Liam and me for three months.

I watched them for a moment too long. It was strange, how a secret could feel small when it was only yours, and enormous the second you imagined placing it in someone else’s hands.

Liam noticed before anyone else did. He was sitting beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table. He hadn’t been saying much. Not because he was calm, but because he was absolutely not calm and had decided silence was the safest option. His hand found mine under the table, warm and firm.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

I looked at him. Then around the room. At Peggy. At Noel. At Paul. At his children trying not to look like they were waiting for a bomb to go off. At my parents. At my friends. At the people who were about to be pulled into something that had been just ours until now.

I nodded because I knew I wouldn’t feel any more ready if I waited.

So, without standing up, without tapping a glass or making some pretty little speech, I lifted my voice just enough to cut through the noise.

“Sorry— we need to tell you something.”

It took a second for the room to understand. The conversations didn’t stop at once. They faded badly, in pieces. Clara turned first. Then Julia. Peggy’s eyes went straight to Liam, which was unfair but also completely predictable. Noel lowered his drink and looked at his brother with the faintest hint of a smirk, already enjoying the disaster he knew was coming.

Liam squeezed my hand once and I took a breath. “We’re having a baby.”

For one second, no one moved. Then the room exploded. Clara gasped so loudly it nearly became a scream. Julia grabbed her arm and said, “I knew it,” even though she absolutely did not. Anaïs covered her mouth, smiling already. Sonny said something like, “Wait, seriously?” Donovan started laughing in disbelief. Gene’s girlfriend looked at Gene, caught him grinning, and slapped his arm because he had clearly known. Molly’s eyes filled immediately. Lennon looked down for a second, smiling to himself like he was relieved he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

And Peggy— she stared at Liam.

“Liam.”

He sat up straighter. “What?”

Her eyes widened with that very specific motherly horror that made him look about twelve years old. “Are you serious?”

The room went louder. Gene choked on a laugh. Paul looked down into his drink to hide his smile. Noel muttered, “There she is,” under his breath.

Liam looked genuinely offended. “Why’s it always me?”

Peggy pointed at him. “At your age?”

“Here we go.”

“You’re already a grandad.”

“I know that.”

“So you understand why I’m asking questions.”

“I’m fifty-two, Mam, not dead.”

“That is not as reassuring as you think.”

I felt him tense beside me, not angry, just bracing himself. And because I knew Peggy wasn’t being cruel, only shocked, I leaned forward slightly.

“Peggy,” I said, gently. Her eyes moved to me. The room softened a little. “I’m okay,” I said. “We’re okay.”

That changed something in her face. Not all at once. She was still Peggy. She still looked like she wanted to smack Liam round the back of the head on principle. But her panic shifted, loosening into something more fragile.

“You’re sure, love?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Properly?”

I smiled a little. “Properly.”

She let out a breath, long and heavy, then pressed a hand to her chest. “Jesus Christ.”

Liam muttered, “That means happy, by the way.”

Peggy shot him a look. “I’m getting there.”

Paul laughed then, soft and warm. “Well, congratulations,” he said, looking at both of us. “That’s lovely news.”

Noel finally decided to contribute. “Well,” he said. “At least it’ll keep you busy.”

Liam looked at him. “You already knew.”

The whole table shifted toward Noel.

Peggy’s head snapped around. “You knew?”

Noel lifted one shoulder. “He rang me in the middle of the night having a breakdown.”

“I did not.”

“You were spiralling.”

I bit my lip to stop myself smiling.

Peggy stared at Noel for another second, then sighed. “Of course he rang you first.”

Noel’s expression barely changed, but his voice softened just enough. “Wasn’t mine to tell.”

That sat there, quietly. A small act of brotherhood, hidden under all that dryness.

Then my mother spoke. “You’re pregnant.”

I turned. She was looking at me like the words had only just become real. My dad sat beside her, quiet and stunned, his eyes already a little shiny in a way he would probably deny later.

“Yeah,” I said.

My mum’s face did something complicated. She looked at my stomach, then at Liam, then back at me. For a second, I saw every old argument pass behind her eyes. Every difference between us. Every version of my life she had expected and the one I had stubbornly built instead.

Then she said, almost helplessly, “God, you’ve always been so weird.”

Julia made a tiny noise beside Clara, Liam blinked and I almost laughed.

“Mum.”

“I don’t mean it badly,” she said quickly, though she absolutely could have chosen better words. “I just mean… you always did things your own way.”

“That’s a nicer version.”

She sighed, but her eyes were softer now. “And are you happy?” That was the question, underneath all of it.

I looked at Liam before answering. Not because I needed permission. Because he was part of the answer. His thumb brushed once over my hand.

“I am,” I said.

My mum held my gaze a second longer, then nodded. “Alright.”

Not emotional in the way films make mothers emotional, but it was something.

My dad stood up then, abruptly. Like his body had decided before his brain did.

“Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to do.

He came around the table and pulled me into a hug, careful but firm, one hand at the back of my head like I was suddenly small again.

“My girl,” he murmured.

That nearly got me. It was just him, overwhelmed and trying not to make a mess of it.

My dad looked at Liam then, still processing the whole impossible shape of it.

“You’ll look after her?”

Liam didn’t answer fast.

He looked at me, then back at my dad. “She doesn’t need lookin’ after,” he said. “But yeah. I will.”

My dad blinked, then nodded slowly. “Good answer.”

Liam shrugged once. “Only had one.”

And after that, the room found itself again.

Clara reached me first, already crying before she even touched me. “I’m going to be an aunt,” she said, grabbing both my hands.

Julia appeared behind her, just as emotional and slightly offended. “We’re going to be aunts.”

“You’re not technically—” Liam started. Both of them turned to look at him. He stopped immediately. “Right. Aunts.”

“Smart,” Noel muttered from somewhere behind him.

Julia hugged me so tightly I had to laugh into her shoulder, and Clara kept saying, “I knew it,” even though she absolutely hadn’t. They were already talking over each other, making plans, arguing about who would buy the first tiny outfit, deciding things no one had asked them to decide.

Molly came next, softer, eyes bright. She didn’t say much. She just held me for a second longer than usual, one hand careful at my back.

Then Gene’s voice cut through the room. “So I’m officially a big brother again?”

Liam looked at him. “Yeah.”

Gene leaned back, processing it with the dramatic weight of a man who had just been personally betrayed by biology. “At my age?”

Lennon laughed. “You’re making this about you already?”

“I’m allowed,” Gene said. “I’m being replaced.”

“You were never that important,” Lennon replied.

Gene pointed at him. “That’s exactly what a jealous older brother would say.”

“You’re the jealous older brother now.”

That made Gene pause, then his whole expression shifted. “Oh, shit. I am.”

Everyone laughed, and even Liam smiled then, though he tried to hide it badly.

Peggy was still half emotional, half furious with him, which felt about right. She hugged me carefully and then smacked Liam lightly on the arm when he got close.

“What was that for?”

“For making me a grandmother again without warning.”

Liam blinked, offended. “What, did you want me to warn you while we were makin’ the baby?”

The room went dead silent.

“LIAM.” Peggy smacked him again, harder this time, while Gene nearly choked on his drink and Noel closed his eyes like he was physically in pain.

“What?” Liam said, rubbing his arm. “She wanted a warning.”

Paul laughed quietly into his drink. Anaïs came over with a smile, warm and easy, and Sonny asked if this made the baby their cousin or “some weird Gallagher maths thing.”

Noel, without missing a beat, said, “Don’t ask Liam for maths.”

Liam pointed at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

“I’ve been on thin ice since you were born.”

The room kept moving around us. Noisy. Messy. Full of hands reaching for me, questions being thrown across the table, people laughing before anyone had finished speaking. My dad was still a little teary. My mum kept looking at me with that strange softened expression, like she was trying to understand this version of me without correcting it first.

And Liam stood in the middle of it all, overwhelmed and pretending he wasn’t. At some point, I caught him watching Gene and Lennon argue over who would be the cooler older brother. Molly was already telling Clara and Julia what baby things were actually useful and which ones were a waste of money. Peggy was asking if I was eating properly. Noel was pretending not to listen while clearly listening to everything.

He leaned closer and tilted his head toward the hallway. “Come here a sec.”

I followed him a few steps away from the noise while everyone else kept talking over each other in the kitchen.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small laugh. “Family’s terrifying.”

I smiled at that.

He looked at me for a second longer, softer now. “We’re alright though.”

“We are.”

Liam wrapped an arm around me and pulled me against him, kissing my forehead first before I tilted my head up and kissed him properly.

Behind us, someone yelled my name from the kitchen.

“Oi,” Liam muttered against my mouth. “Can’t even have her for thirty seconds now.”

1974

Today I meet a boy at school called Noel.

At first, I thought he hated me. He sits two desks away from me and looks at everyone like they are stupid, even Mrs. Kelly, and Mrs. Kelly is not stupid because she knows all the times tables without looking. He has brown hair and a face like he is always thinking something mean. When I ask him if he wants one of my biscuits at break, he says no, but then looks at it for so long that I leave it on the wall beside him.

He eats it when he thinks I am not looking.

After that, he tries to pull my hair two times. The first time, I tell him he is horrible. The second time, I kick his shoe and he says, “Ow,” but he is laughing, so I know he is not really mad.

I decide he is my friend. He does not decide anything because Noel does not like deciding nice things out loud.

Mum says some boys are strange when they like you. Dad says that is not an excuse to pull girls’ hair. I agree with Dad, but I still sit next to Noel the next day because he lets me copy his drawing of a spaceship and he does the best explosions with red pencil.

The first time he comes over, Mum makes fish and chips, and Noel eats so fast that Dad tells him, “Slow down, son, nobody’s taking it off you.” Noel looks at him funny and then he eats slower.

I show him my room after tea. He says it is too pink, even though it is not that pink, only the curtains and the blanket and my little lamp. I tell him his face is too miserable. He says my doll looks possessed. I tell him he is not allowed to insult Susan because Susan has been through a lot.

He asks, “What’s she been through?”

I say, “You.”

And he laughs so hard he has to sit on the floor.

After that, he comes over all the time. Sometimes after school. Sometimes on Saturdays. Sometimes when it is raining and his coat is wet and his hair sticks to his forehead. Mum always makes him take his shoes off by the door. Dad always pretends to be annoyed when Noel and I are too loud, but he never really is.

Noel likes our kitchen best. He says it is because Mum has better biscuits than his mum, but I do not think that is true because Peggy is lovely and she buys us ice cream when we see her near the shops. She always says, “You two behave yourselves,” and Noel says, “We always do,” even if we absolutely do not.

Peggy takes us to the park sometimes too. She lets us run ahead, but not too far, and one time she brings Noel’s baby brother, Liam, who is only little and has big eyes and cheeks like bread rolls. I think I might die because he is so cute. Noel says babies are boring and loud, but when Liam drops his little toy on the ground, Noel picks it up before anyone else can.

I tell him he loves his baby brother.

Noel says, “Shut up.” That means yes.

Peggy is nice, and Paul is nice too when I see him, but I never go inside Noel’s house. Not once.

He comes to mine. I go to the park with his mum. We buy sweets from the corner shop. We sit on the kerb and make up stories about the people walking past. But I never go in.

When I ask Noel why, he just shrugs. “Nothing to see,” he says.

After a while, I stop asking.

One night, he sleeps over because Mum says it is too late for him to walk back, even though his house is not that far. She says it in her serious voice, the one that means I am not supposed to argue.

We make a tent in my bedroom with two chairs, my blanket and Dad’s torch. Noel says it is a rubbish tent because it keeps falling down on his head. I say it only falls because his head is too big.

He says, “Your head’s bigger.”

I say, “No, it isn’t.”

He says, “Yeah, it is. Full of nonsense.”

I shine the torch under my chin and make a ghost face at him. He does not laugh that time. He is lying on his back, looking at the blanket above us like it is the sky. The torch makes little yellow shapes on his face. For a bit, he does not say anything.

Then he says, very quiet, “I don’t like my house.”

I wait because I think maybe he is going to say more but he doesn't.

So I say the first thing that makes sense. “I think your house is haunted.” Noel looks at me. I whisper, “Your dad is always mad.”

He looks away again. “Yeah,” he says after a bit. “Maybe.”

I ask, “Are you scared of ghosts?”

“No.”

“You can be. I won’t tell.”

“I’m not scared of ghosts.”

“What are you scared of then?”

He pulls a thread from the blanket and twists it around his finger. “Nothing.” But he says it like he is lying.

So I move my pillow closer to his and tell him he can sleep in the tent if he wants, because ghosts cannot get inside tents. Everyone knows that. Noel says that is stupid. Then he stays in the tent anyway.

In the morning, everyone is already awake except for him. Dad is in the kitchen with the paper, Mum is putting plates on the table, and I am standing there in my pyjamas, thinking about Noel still sleeping in my bed like the morning forgot to take him home.

“Why is Noel still asleep?” I ask.

Mum glances toward the hallway before she answers. “He’s very tired, love.”

“Tired from what?”

“Just tired.”

I frown because that is not a real answer. “He sleeps loads here.”

Mum puts a plate of toast on the table and smooths my hair back from my face. “Then let him sleep,” she says softly. “Sometimes people are very tired and need a bit more rest.”

“But it’s morning.”

“I know.”

I look toward my bedroom. “Should I wake him up?”

“No.” Mum smiles a little. “Let him rest.”

So I do.

By the time he wakes up, Dad was reading the paper at the table and reaches out to ruffle Noel’s hair when he walks in. Noel flinches so fast it is almost invisible. His shoulders jump, his head ducks down, one arm comes up halfway like he is trying to protect himself before he even knows he is doing it. Then he realises it is only Dad, only a hand in his hair. Nobody says anything about it.

That is how it starts happening more.

Not every night, not even every week, but sometimes Noel stays. Sometimes Mum makes up reasons before anyone asks, sometimes Dad says, “Sofa’s free if you’re tired, lad.” Sometimes I find extra blankets folded at the end of my bed even though Mum says they are just there because it gets cold.

Noel never says thank you properly. He says things like, “Your dad snores,” or “Your mum burns toast,” or “Your house smells like washing powder.” But he keeps coming back and I know that means thank you.

Months go by, then more months and Noel and I become the sort of friends people stop asking about because we are always together. At school, if someone sees me, they look for him. If someone sees him, they ask where I am. Mrs. Kelly says we are like two peas in a pod, but Noel says that is stupid because peas are disgusting.

We fight all the time. We fight about who gets the last biscuit. We fight about whether dogs are better than cats. We fight because he says my handwriting is too neat and I say his looks like a spider fell in ink and died. We fight because he cheats at games and then says cheating only counts if you get caught.

But if anyone else is mean to me, Noel gets meaner. And if anyone says anything about Noel, I get louder.

Mum says we are like brother and sister. I say no, because Noel is too annoying to be my brother.

Noel says, “You’d be lucky.”

I throw a cushion at his face. He throws it back harder.

But sometimes, when he is asleep on our sofa with one arm hanging off the side, or when he stands in our kitchen eating toast with jam on his cheek, or when he follows me around the park even though he says he is not following me, I think maybe Mum is right. Maybe Noel is not just my friend, maybe he is something that got left at our house by accident, something we are allowed to keep.

1976

Noel is nine now and I am nine too, which means we are nearly grown-ups. That is what I tell Mum when she says we are too little to go to the shops alone.

She says, “Nearly grown-ups still need to hold hands when they cross the road.”

Noel says he is not holding my hand because that is for babies. Then he holds my sleeve the whole way there.

He is taller than before, but not by much. His hair is messier and his face is sharper, like someone has rubbed out the soft bits. He still looks cross most of the time, but I know better now.

Noel is cross when he is hungry or when he is tired or when he is embarrassed. And sometimes Noel is cross when he is sad, because being sad is worse and he does not like people knowing.

I know lots of things about him now. I know he hates carrots but eats them at my house because Mum looks pleased when he does and I know he likes sitting closest to the heater, but pretends he does not care where he sits also I know he says Liam is annoying, but lets him climb all over him when Peggy brings him to the park. I know he likes stories with ships and treasure best, even though he says stories are stupid if they have too much talking.

I also know there are days when Noel does not come to school. And when he comes back, he does not tell me why.

“Were you ill?” I ask once.

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“Nowhere.”

“You can’t be nowhere. Everyone is somewhere.”

Noel kicks a stone across the pavement. “Maybe I was nowhere.”

I think about that all afternoon. I do not like the idea of Noel being nowhere.

One Friday, he comes to my house after tea.

He is not supposed to because he did not come to school that day, and Mum always says if you are too poorly for school, you are too poorly for playing. But when she opens the door and sees him standing there, she does not say that.

She just says, “Come in, love.”

Noel’s lip is split. Not a lot, just a little bit, right in the corner, like when the cold makes your mouth crack in winter. But it is not winter. It is May.

I stare at it. Noel glares at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking at your stupid face because it is in front of me.” He snorts, but it hurts him because he touches his mouth after, very quick, like he does not want me to see.

Mum sees, Dad sees too. Nobody says anything. That is worse sometimes, when the grown-ups do not say anything, because it means there is something so big they are stepping around it.

After tea, Noel and I go upstairs. We are pirates now. We have been pirates for three weeks because Noel found a stick shaped like a sword near the park and said it was too good for me, so obviously I stole it. We make a ship out of my bed and the chair from my desk. The floor is the sea. My blanket is the sail. Susan, my doll, is a prisoner, but only because Noel says she has “shifty eyes.”

I tell him captains do not sit on the floor looking miserable.

He says, “Good thing you’re not captain then.”

“I am captain.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“I’m first mate.”

“You can’t be first mate if you’re horrible.”

“Yes, I can. Pirates are horrible.” This is true, so I let him win that one.

We sail to India because I like the name and because it sounds far enough that ghosts cannot follow us. Noel says pirates do not go to India just because I like the name. I say these pirates do. He says I am bossy. I say he is lucky because otherwise he would be a boring pirate with no treasure.

He laughs, but only a little. Then he lies down on the bed-ship and looks at the ceiling. I sit beside him with the torch in my hand. His mouth is still red in the corner.

I ask, “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He does not answer.

I poke his shoulder. “Noel.”

“What?”

“You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I look at the ceiling too because sometimes it is easier to talk when you are not looking at someone. “Did your house get haunted again?”

He goes very still. That is how I know. He does not cry. Not really. Noel almost never cries in the proper way, with noise and snot and all that. His eyes just get shiny and angry, like they are doing something without asking him first.

“I hate it there,” he says.

It is so quiet I nearly miss it. But I do not, I hear it. And something in my chest feels funny, like when you are running too fast and the air gets stuck.

So I say, “Then come live with me.”

Noel turns his head. “What?”

“You can live here.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, because we can be pirates.”

His eyebrows move closer together. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If you live here, we can be pirates every day. And you won’t have to go back to the haunted house. And you won’t have to cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Fine. You won’t have to not cry.”

He looks away fast. I keep talking because I think if I stop, he will say no properly and then I will have to think of another plan.

“You can have the sofa, or we can ask Mum if you can have the little room with the boxes. We can move the boxes. I’ll help. And you can have toast whenever you want, and Dad won’t make you eat carrots if you tell him they make you sick.”

“They don’t make me sick.”

“They could.”

“That’s lying.”

“Pirates lie all the time.”

Noel makes a sound that is nearly a laugh.

I sit up on my knees. “And if the ghosts come, we’ll fight them. I’ll have the sword because I’m captain, but you can have the torch.”

“I don’t want the torch.”

“You can’t have the sword.”

“I’m better with the sword.”

“You are not. You hit the lamp yesterday.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was on the table.”

This time he does laugh. Only for a second. Then his face changes again and he looks nine and not nine at all. I do not know what to do with that face. So I take my blanket and put it over both our heads like a tent, even though we are too big for it now and our knees push up the sides.

“There,” I say. “Closet.”

“It’s not a closet.”

“It is now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Fine. It’s a pirate closet.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if I say it is.”

Noel is quiet. Under the blanket, everything is warm and dark and yellow from the torch. I can hear him breathing next to me. I can hear Mum downstairs washing plates. I can hear Dad laughing at something on the telly.

I whisper, “You can hide here if you want.”

He does not say anything for so long that I think maybe he has fallen asleep. Then his shoulder touches mine. Just barely.

“I’m not hiding,” he says.

I nod, even though he cannot see me very well. “Okay.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“Okay.”

“With you.”

I smile in the dark. “That’s allowed.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, quick and angry.

Then he says, “If I lived here, I’d be captain sometimes.”

“No.”

“Then I’m not living here.”

I think about it. “Fine. Tuesdays.”

“Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“One Friday a month.”

“Every Friday.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“You are very difficult to rescue.”

He goes quiet again. Then, in the smallest voice, he says, “Yeah.”

I do not know why that makes me sad. So I give him the sword. Only because pirates need rescuing too sometimes.

1981

Noel and I are fourteen now, school still starts at nine. Buses still splash dirty water on your tights. Teachers still care about homework. Boys still push each other in corridors and act like idiots because apparently that is what boys are made for.

Noel is still my best friend.

He is taller now. Not properly tall, just taller than he was, and thin in a way that makes all his clothes look like they are waiting for him to grow into them. His hair is darker and always falling into his eyes. He has started walking with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up, like he is bored of every person on earth.

He still looks miserable. Only now, unfortunately, he also looks nice and this is a terrible problem.

I do not tell anyone because I would rather be hit by a bus than say I fancy Noel Gallagher. Especially because he is Noel, and he would never let me live it down. He would probably make a face and say something awful like, “Course you do,” and then I would have to move countries.

Also, he knows everything about me. He knows I cried when my rabbit died even though it was actually my cousin’s rabbit and I had only met it twice. He knows I cannot whistle no matter how many times I try. He knows I still sleep with one foot out of the blanket because I get too hot. He knows I am scared of deep water, but only if I cannot see the bottom.

Sometimes, when he stays over, we do not build tents anymore because we are too old and because if anyone from school found out we were under a blanket together, we would both have to throw ourselves into the canal. Now he sleeps on the sofa. Or sometimes on the floor of my room if my parents are too tired to make rules and we are watching telly too late. Nothing happens. Obviously. We are not like that. We are normal.

Except sometimes his foot touches mine or sometimes we lie there in the dark and neither of us moves away and sometimes I can feel him looking at me and I pretend I do not, sometimes I look at him and he pretends he does not know.

So, normal.

One Thursday, he does not come to school. This is not new, but it still makes my stomach feel wrong.

By the last bell, I have chewed the skin beside my thumb until it hurts. I walk home slowly, looking for him even though I tell myself I am not looking for him. I look near the corner shop, by the park, at the bus stop. I look down every street like he might appear by magic, with his stupid coat and his stupid face and some stupid thing to say about how I walk too slowly.

He is not there.

Then, when I am almost home, I hear someone shout my name, I turn around and Noel is running down the street. Actually running.

Noel never runs unless Liam is chasing him with something sticky or someone has threatened to take the last chip. His coat is open, his hair is all over the place, and he looks like he has forgotten he is supposed to be too cool for everything.

For one horrible second, I think something bad has happened. Then I see his face, he is smiling, properly. It makes him look younger and older at the same time.

I stop in the middle of the pavement. “What happened?”

He reaches me out of breath, one hand on the wall beside us, laughing a little even though he is trying not to.

“She’s doing it,” he says.

“Who?”

“Our mam.” I stare at him. He looks at me like I am being thick on purpose. “She’s leaving him.”

Everything goes quiet. “She is?”

“Yeah.”

“Noel.”

“She is.” His voice cracks a bit, and he hates it, so he looks away fast. “She’s actually doing it. She’s taking us.”

I do not know what to do first. Maybe I laugh or cry or throw myself at him. I only know that suddenly my arms are around his neck and he is hugging me back so tightly it hurts. His face presses into my shoulder for one second, just one, and I feel him breathe like he has been holding it for years.

Then he says, against my shoulder, “We’re leaving Burnage.”

And my heart drops so hard I almost let go.

I pull back slowly. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “We’re going somewhere else. Don’t know exactly. Somewhere away from him.”

“Away,” I repeat.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us says anything. His smile has gone smaller now, like he knew this part was coming and hated it before I even heard it.

I look at his face. The one I know better than any face in the world. The one I used to see across a blanket tent when we were little. The one I used to check for bruises before I knew that was what I was doing. The one that has annoyed me every single day for seven years.

“You have to go,” I say. He blinks. I hate that he looks surprised. “Obviously you have to go.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Stop saying good.”

“I’m saying it because it is.”

“I know it is.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to tell you not to.”

He looks away. That is enough of an answer. I feel something split open inside me. Because I do want to tell him not to.

I want to say you can live with me, remember? We can still be pirates, even if we are too old and stupid now. I want to say you can have the sofa, my room, the little room with the boxes, anything, just do not disappear from the only place I know how to find you.

But I am fourteen, not seven. I know things now. So I swallow all of it, for him.

I say, “Noel, you have to leave.”

His jaw moves, he nods once. “I know.”

“And don’t be stupid about it.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You are sometimes.”

“You’re always stupid.”

“You’re the one who thought pirates couldn't go to India.”

“That was years ago.”

“You were wrong then and you’re wrong now.”

“About what?”

“About thinking you should feel bad for going.”

He looks at me properly then. I wish he would not. There are some things that are easier when he is not looking at me.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. “You know that, right?”

His face does something I cannot name. For a second, he looks like the little boy under the blanket again. The one who said he hated his house. The one who said he was not hiding. Then he looks fourteen again, and mean, and embarrassed, and close to crying in that awful Noel way where his eyes get bright and his mouth goes sharp.

He catches my wrist, not hard. Just enough. For one second, neither of us moves. His hand is warm around my wrist. His thumb is right where my pulse is, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is going. I wonder if his is doing the same thing. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he has always known.

Then he lets go like he has burned himself.

I put my hand in my coat pocket and pretend it is nothing. “When?” I ask.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“In a couple of days maybe.”

“That’s very soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you write?”

He makes a face. “I’m not writing letters like some old woman.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“Will you write?”

He looks at the pavement. “Maybe.”

That means yes. Or maybe it means no and he is too much of a coward to say it. I cannot tell this time, and I hate that.

We start walking to my house like we always do. Even now. Even when everything has changed, our feet still know where to go.

Mum is in the kitchen when we arrive. She sees Noel’s face before I say anything. Peggy must have told her already, because Mum’s eyes go soft and sad.

“Oh, love,” she says.

Noel rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”

But he lets her hug him. That is how I know he is really happy.

Dad claps him on the shoulder, careful like always, and says, “Best news I’ve heard all year, lad.”

Noel stares at the floor. “Yeah.”

Mum makes tea. Dad makes toast even though it is not tea time. Noel eats three slices and says our butter is rubbish. Mum tells him he has been eating our rubbish butter for seven years. He says that is how he knows. Everyone laughs. I do too. But it feels like laughing with a stone in my chest.

Later, we sit on the back step while the sky goes grey and the air smells like rain. We are shoulder to shoulder, but not touching.

Neither of us says much. There is too much to say, so we say almost nothing.

“You’ll be alright,” I tell him.

He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“How?”

I look at him. “Because you won’t be there.”

He goes quiet. The rain starts very softly, little dots on the concrete. He does not move. I do not either.

After a while, he says, “What if it’s worse?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it is?”

“Then you come back.”

“And do what?”

“Live with me.” He looks at me. I try to smile. “We’ll be pirates.”

For a second, he almost smiles too. Almost. Then his face falls apart in the smallest way. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for me.

“You’re mental,” he says.

“I know.”

“That was a stupid plan then.”

“It was a brilliant plan.”

“You wanted me to sleep in a pirate closet.”

“It was safer than your house.”

The words come out before I can stop them. We both freeze. The rain gets a little harder.

Noel looks away first. “Yeah,” he says.

It is barely a sound. I wish I could take the sentence back. Not because it is not true, but because it is too true. It sits between us, ugly and honest.

I put my hand on the step between us. Not touching him. Just there. After a moment, his little finger hooks around mine. It is such a tiny thing. So stupid, childish. So us.

I stare straight ahead because if I look at him, I will cry, and if I cry, he will either be horrible or he will be kind, and I do not know which one would hurt worse.

“I’m glad,” I say.

His finger tightens around mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like someone’s died.”

“Maybe someone has.” He turns his head. I do not mean to say it. I really do not. But it is already there. I shrug, like it is nothing. “Not you. Just… us.”

Noel does not make a joke. He just looks at our hands, at his little finger around mine, like he is trying to memorise something without anyone noticing.

Then he says, “There’ll still be us.”

I want to believe him. I do. I want it so badly it hurts. But I know how grown-ups say things they cannot promise. I know how people leave even when they do not want to. I know letters get forgotten. I know buses go different ways. I know life is bigger than two fourteen-year-olds on a back step pretending their hands are not touching.

So I say, “Okay.”

Noel hears everything I do not say. He always does. He leans his shoulder into mine. This time, he does not move away. We sit there until Mum calls us in because we are getting soaked. And when Noel stands up, he lets go of my finger first. I try not to hate him for that. I try to be happy. I am happy. I am. He is leaving that house. He is leaving the shouting and the doors and the flinching and the terrible quiet after terrible noise. He is leaving the place that made him look older than he was. He is leaving the place that taught him to turn soft things sharp before anyone else could touch them.

That is the best thing that has ever happened. So why does it feel like someone is taking him from me too?

That night, after he goes home, I lie in bed and look at the ceiling. I am too old to make a tent. Too old for pirate closets. Too old to believe you can save someone by moving boxes out of the spare room. But I still think about it: he could have lived here, I would have let him be captain on Fridays.

And also I hope he goes but I hope he stays too, and I hate myself for the second one.

1991

I am twenty-four when I see Noel Gallagher again.

It happens in a pub so small and miserable it looks like it has been forgotten on purpose.

The floor is sticky. The beer is warm. The lights are bad. There is a band playing in the corner, or trying to, but the sound is mostly feedback and someone’s amp giving up on life. People talk over them anyway. Nobody here looks like they are going anywhere.

Then I see him. At first, it is just the back of his head. Dark hair. Shoulders slightly hunched. Cigarette between his fingers. A pint in front of him. One elbow on the bar like he owns the place and also hates it.

I know him instantly. That is the stupidest part. Ten years go by. People grow up. Faces change. Voices drop. Lives happen. You forget the exact shape of someone’s hands, the way they looked in a school jumper, the sound of their laugh before it got heavy with smoke and adulthood.

But I know him. Before he turns around. Before I see his face. Before anyone says his name. I know him.

My feet move before I decide anything. “Noel?”

He turns. And for one second, all the noise in the pub goes somewhere else. He is older, obviously. Sharper. His face has lost the last of the boy I knew, except it has not, not really. It is still there in the eyes, in the way he looks at me like he is trying to be unimpressed and failing so badly it almost hurts.

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. That is how I know it is really him. Noel Gallagher, speechless.

I should enjoy it more. Instead, my chest feels too tight.

“Hi,” I say, because apparently after ten years that is all I have.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then he says my name. Just my name. Like he has had it somewhere in his mouth all this time and is surprised it still fits.

I smile, even though I feel like I might shake apart. “You remember me, then.”

He stares at me. “Are you joking?”

I shrug. “A bit.”

“You look…” He stops. He looks annoyed with himself. “Different,” he says finally.

“That’s insulting.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is if you say it like that.”

“I mean you don’t look twelve anymore.”

“I was fourteen.”

“Yeah, well. You looked twelve.”

“And you looked miserable.”

“I still do.”

I laugh. And there it is. His face changes. For a second, he looks exactly like the boy on my back step in the rain, little finger hooked around mine, pretending leaving did not hurt because staying would have killed him.

He looks away first. Of course he does. “You want a drink?” he asks.

“I’ve got one.”

He glances at the glass in my hand. “That’s not a drink. That’s coloured water.”

“It’s a lager.”

“It’s tragic.”

“You’ve been back in my life for twenty seconds and you’re already annoying.”

“Good to know I’ve still got it.”

He buys me a beer anyway. A proper one, according to him, which tastes almost exactly the same but I do not say that because he looks pleased with himself.

We sit in a corner where the table wobbles every time one of us moves. Ten years sit down with us. At first, we talk around them. He tells me he has been working, doing bits here and there, roadie work, music, bands, nothing glamorous. He says it like he does not care, but his fingers tap against the glass every time he mentions music. I tell him about my life. Not all of it. Just enough. Where I moved. What I studied. Jobs I hated. People he does not know. Places that meant nothing because he was not there.

He asks about my parents. “They’re good,” I say. “Mum still burns toast.”

“She always did.”

“You always ate it.”

“I was being polite.”

“You once told her her butter was rubbish.”

“Yeah, but I ate the toast, didn’t I?”

I smile down at my drink. “She asks about you sometimes.”

His face does something careful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like that is nothing. It is not nothing. I know him.

“And Peggy?” I ask.

“She’s alright.”

“Paul?”

“Alright.”

“Liam?”

Noel snorts. “Loud.”

“So, alright.”

“Depends who you ask.”

I laugh again, and this time he does too. Properly. Quiet, but real. For a moment, it is easy. Then it is not. Because his knee brushes mine under the table and neither of us moves. Because I notice his hands. Because he looks at me too long and then looks away like he has been caught stealing. Because ten years is a very long time until suddenly it is nothing.

“You disappeared,” I say.

Noel looks into his pint. “Yeah.”

“I wrote twice.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I know.”

“That was horrible of you.”

“Yeah.”

I expect a joke. I expect him to go sharp. I expect him to make it easier by making me angry but he does not. He just sits there, older and not older, with his thumb rubbing at the wet ring his glass has left on the table.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he says.

I hate how much I believe him. “You could’ve said anything.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

He looks at me then. And suddenly he is fourteen again, and I am fourteen again, and the rain is on the concrete, and his little finger is around mine, and everything we were too young to say is sitting between us again.

“Because if I started,” he says, “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

My throat tightens. The band in the corner starts another song. Someone cheers ironically. Someone drops a glass near the bar. The pub keeps living around us like it has no idea.

I look at him.

Noel says, “You still look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know things.”

“I do know things.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You always did.”

I should say something clever. I should ask him about the band, or his life, or where he lives now, or whether he is happy, or whether he ever thinks about the pirate closet, or whether he remembers promising there would still be us.

Instead, I say, “I missed you.”

His face breaks. Then he leans forward and kisses me. It is ten years of not writing back. Ten years of almost forgetting and never managing it. Ten years of every house after his not being mine. Ten years of my name still fitting in his mouth.

Then it slows. His hand comes up to my face like he is checking I am real. I kiss him back before I can think better of it. Maybe I do not want to think better of it.

When we pull apart, he stays close. Too close. His forehead nearly touches mine. For once, Noel does not look like he has something mean to say. He looks scared.

I whisper, “Noel.”

He closes his eyes for half a second. Then he says, very quietly, “I still got love for you.”

I look at him, at the boy I lost and the man sitting in front of me, and I realise some things do not disappear just because nobody says them for ten years. Some things wait. Like songs. Like ghosts. Like love.

I touch his wrist under the table and this time, he does not let go.