#simeri.

Maybe you couldn't fix everything waiting for Simon at home.

You couldn't stop his father from drinking.

Couldn't stop the shouting every night.

Couldn't stop him carrying burdens far too heavy for someone his age.

Couldn't stop the way Simon flinched at slammed doors or raised voices.

Or even the way he learned to listen for his Dad's footsteps before he learned algebra.

But you could save him a seat in the lunch hall.

Could share your chips when he'd forgotten to put money on his school card again.

Could give him somewhere warm to go when home was just too much.

Could give him someone to walk beside, someone who cared.

And god, you cared.

Sometimes Simon thought you cared too much, as if he doubted his own self worth.

Every school morning, you waited for him.

Same spot by the corner shop that sold overpriced crisps even when the bag had a cheaper price printed on it.

Always at the same time, without fail, you knew how Simon felt about his routines.

Most days, you spotted him walking down the top of the hill before he spotted you.

Tall for his age already, definitely much taller than he used to be. Hands shoved into his pockets, tie barely done, school shirt unironed.

Always with a quiet scowl, forever unimpressed with the existence of other people.

You'd grin at him as he finally strolled up beside you, "Morning."

He'd roll his eyes, "Mm."

Routine.

"I don't know if you're aware but it's nice to say morning when people say it to you. 'Mm' isn't a greeting in my books"

"Well it's all you're getting, be grateful."

"So rude." you'd say in mock offense, clutching your chest.

Simon smiled a little, "I am, yet you still wait for me."

And annoyingly, he had a point.

You always did wait.

It didn't matter if it was freezing cold or raining

Didn't matter if you'd make yourself late by waiting for him to show.

You waited.

And then the two of you would walk together.

Always.

That's what happens when you've been best friends since nursery.

When you'd known each other so long you couldn't even remember introducing yourselves.

Although you vaguely remember a baby Simon cheering for you when you first mastered the pole in the playground.

He of course remembers it differently.

Typical.

He knew your favourite colour, a soft blue he couldn't help but find everywhere, even amongst a dreary Manchester.

Your favourite song, that had become his too somewhere along the way.

Which teachers made you dread class, the same classes he often rescued you from with a fake note and an even more unbelievable excuse.

What your favourite snacks were and which shops sold them for the best price.

You knew he took two sugars in his tea, even when you joked that should be a crime.

Knew he hated being touched when he was angry, but sometimes didn't mind the feel of your thumb brushing against his wrist.

Knew he secretly liked terrible movies, though if anyone asked he'd deny it.

Knew exactly how bad things were at home without him ever having to say it.

Because you'd seen enough.

He never talked about his father.

Not really. Never offered too many details. Never complained, brushed it off like it was nothing most days.

But sometimes he'd show up at your house front door after dark.

Silent.

Small, somehow, in a way that didn't seem possible, as if he was trying not to take up space.

And your mum never asked questions either, she always just opened the door wider.

Told him there was enough food for one more, enough room for one more.

Enough love for one more, always.

The first time it'd happened, you'd both been eleven.

The latest had been last Friday.

But nothing ever changed, your mum always beckoned him in with a little, "Don't forget to wash your hands and then come sit down."

And Simon would immediately take his shoes off and head to the bathroom.

Always too quickly.

As if he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to be there. As if every act of kindness still surprised him.

Some nights he would stay for dinner, some he'd push his stay until just around midnight.

And some nights, the really bad nights, he'd stay over.

Curled up on the air mattress in your room while rain tapped against the window.

Neither of you would be asleep, he often ended up on your bed because you complained you didn't like having conversatons when you couldn't see his expressions down by the floor

The two of you just talked about everything and anything.

Well everything except the thing that had driven him there.

And eventually his voice would go quiet, you'd hear him breathing steadily.

Finally asleep, real sleep.

The kind of sleep he only ever seemed to get at your house, from feeling safe.

Simon always pretended to hate how much he came over, how easily your Mum took care of him, how natural it felt for you both.

Because home wasn't supposed to feel easier in somebody else's house.

And yet it did.

You never mentioned it, never made him feel embarrassed, wouldn't dare to.

You'd simply save him a seat or hand him your favourite fluffy blanket and move over so he'd have room beside you.

The same way you always had and the same way you always would.

Morning would come and the two of you would walk to school together. Close enough that your shoulders would occasionally bump, or Simon would somehow start walking into you unintentionally.

Neither of you making much noise, just existing together, simple, peaceful.

The cold of the morning would bite at your cheeks, schoolbags far too heavy digging into your shoulders.

And sometimes you'd glance at Simon.

At the boy who carried so much more than anyone realised.

The boy who'd spent years surviving things he never should have had to survive.

The boy who still showed up every day anyway.

Who still laughed at your jokes.

Who still remembered your birthday without fail.

Who still walked beside you every morning.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe you couldn't fix everything waiting for him at home.

But you could give him a place to go when it all became too much.

A best friend always waiting for him, a constant in a life that rarely felt stable.

And maybe that didn't sound like much.

But to Simon Riley, the boy who spent so much of his life feeling unwanted…It meant everything.

Even if he'd never admit it.

"You're staring again."

You blinked, snapping back to reality, "What?"

"You're doin' that weird thing."

"What weird thing?" you said a little too defensively

"Looking emotional."

"I do not look emotional."

"You do."

"Piss off."

A huff of laughter escaped him, real laughter.

And for a moment, just a simple moment, he looked like a kid instead of someone carrying the weight of the world.

You smiled.

Simon rolled his eyes.

Then nudged your shoulder with his, gentle, automatic.

Like he'd done it a thousand times before.

Like he would do it a thousand times more.

A walk to school every morning was a promise, spoken without words: