They were only eight when they first met—two kids from different classrooms, both quiet in their own way. He had just moved to the neighborhood; she had lived there her whole life.

“You were crying,” he said, appearing out of nowhere.

She frowned, eyes still watery. “I wasn’t crying.”

“You totally were. It’s okay. Happens to the best of us. Like, I cried last week when they canceled Teen Titans.”

She sniffled. “That’s not the same.”

He shrugged dramatically. “Pain is pain.”

She looked at him sideways. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the new kid. My mom made me wear this dumb sweater today so I wouldn’t ‘look like a hooligan.’” He gestured to his ridiculously oversized striped cardigan. “Do I look like a hooligan to you?”

She blinked. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Exactly. That’s the point. No one does. She just likes the word.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Want a granola bar? It’s peanut butter. I won’t tell anyone if you eat it weird.”

She eyed it suspiciously. “What do you mean weird?”

He leaned in and whispered, like it was a secret. “I eat the chocolate chips off first.”

“That’s actually really weird.”

“Thanks. I try.”

She looked at him then, really looked. “What’s your name?”

“Adam.”

“I’m Juliette.”

(12 years later they are still best friends)