The carpet in Ms. Rosen’s preschool classroom smelled like crayons and apple juice, the kind of place where time moved slowly and everything felt safe. Toddlers sat in a messy semicircle while Ms. Rosen held up a picture book, carefully sounding out the words.
“C-a-t,” she said gently. “Cat.”
A few kids echoed her. One clapped. Another chewed on the rug.
Barry sat in the middle, legs stretched out, Velcro sneakers crooked. His auburn hair stuck up no matter what, and his big green eyes—far too observant for someone only three years old—weren’t on the book at all.
They were on the girl beside him.
May sat close enough that their arms brushed. Long black curls framed her round cheeks and button nose, her warm brown skin glowing softly under the classroom lights. Her eyes were vivid, sparkling black, fixed on Ms. Rosen with total focus. Even then, her expressions were everything—tiny but intense, curiosity written across her face.
Barry didn’t have the words for what he felt. He just knew she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He yawned, big and dramatic, stretching his arms the way he’d seen his dad do every morning. One arm dropped naturally around May’s shoulders, like muscle memory borrowed from a life he hadn’t lived yet.
She blinked, surprised, then smiled—soft, unconcerned. She shifted closer and rested her head against his chest, curls brushing his shirt.
Barry froze for half a second.
Then he relaxed, his arm tightening just a little.
Ms. Rosen turned the page. The world kept spinning. Someone giggled. Someone dropped a toy.
Neither of them knew that this was the start of everything.
⸻
By the time they were eight, their parents had accepted defeat.
There were endless playdates, unplanned dinners, sleepovers that blurred into weekends. Barry’s shoes by May’s front door. May’s backpack tossed onto Barry’s couch. Homework done together even when it wasn’t required.
Their parents joked about it. They suffered through it. They stopped asking questions.
Middle school brought changes—separate friend groups, awkward growth spurts, voices cracking and curls pulled into neater styles. Barry grew taller, all elbows and knees, fast and restless. May grew into herself quietly, her expressions still vivid, her presence steady and grounding.
They had other friends.
But no relationship came close to theirs.
They still walked home together. Still sat side by side. Still found each other in every room without trying.
Then came the night May called him.
It was late—too late to be casual. Barry answered immediately.
“Barry,” she whispered, panicked. “I think something’s really wrong. There’s blood and it hurts and I think I’m dying.”
His heart dropped.
“I’m coming,” he said instantly, already pulling on a hoodie. “I’m coming right now.”
He ran the entire way to her house.
He didn’t knock. He just appeared in her doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. May was curled on her bed, curls sticking to tear-damp cheeks, fear written plainly across her face.
“I don’t understand,” she cried. “What if I’m sick?”
Barry sat beside her, voice gentle but sure, explaining the only way he knew how. “I think it’s… normal. Like puberty stuff. My mom said it happens.”
She grabbed his hand like a lifeline.
He stayed until she fell asleep, sitting on the floor beside her bed, fingers laced with hers, guarding her without even knowing that’s what he was doing.
⸻
High school didn’t change them.
It confirmed them.
Their schedules lined up almost perfectly—shared classes, shared lunch, last bell ringing with them already together. Their lockers ended up neighbors, metal doors dented and familiar.
Barry’s locker was chaos. May’s was neat and color-coded, faintly vanilla-scented.
They leaned against the lockers every morning, shoulders brushing, sharing snacks and inside jokes. People noticed.
“Are you dating?” “You’re basically married.” “If you’re not together, why do you act like that?”
Barry never knew what to say.
May just smiled.