Adam shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. We give each other awkward, no-teeth smiles, unsure how to be around each other with his parents making a racket in the kitchen. Adam shrugs and swivels his head in the direction of the living room, his body trailing after like he’s being pulled by a string.

We sit down on the big couch, which is so much less comfortable than it looks. I feel stiff, like we’re pretending to be adults who come over to each other’s homes for their birthdays and sit on settees and talk about stock options or whatever it is that adults do. There’s a weird pressure in the air, like we’re supposed to be doing something. What are we supposed to be doing?

“So…” I start, “how’s the birthday been?” I’m hyperaware of my body—do I always sit like this, what should I do with my hands, is it weird that Adam and I are sitting on the same couch? Are we sitting too close? Too far apart? The questions run around, outpacing the green, pulling me away from the tether that’s keeping me in reality. Adam’s voice, like always, pulls me back.

“It’s been good,” he says. “Pretty uneventful, but good.”

“That’s good,” I echo stupidly. I’m nodding, unable to control my own body. Adam’s nerves are starting to entwine with my own and normally that’s okay, but these nerves are spiky and slimy and difficult to fit in.

“Do you wanna go upstairs?” Adam mumbles, and I feel the ball of anxiety in my gut loosen a bit. There’s something comforting in knowing that even when we’re uncomfortable, Adam and I are still on the same page.

“Yeah.” I nod and we bolt from the couch and up the stairs. We get to his room and I pause a moment to really look around. The last and only time I was here, I was too deep underwater to take it in. But now that I’m here with a clear(ish) head—full of soft butterflies and simple, uncomplicated happiness—I’m able to absorb it. I have to keep myself from smiling at just how very Adam it is. His things are organized within an inch of their life but there are little nods at rebellion throughout—the dog-eared and, no doubt, written-in paperback copies of classic literature on his nightstand, the band stickers covering his laptop, the USB piano keyboard on the end of his bed. I wonder if he composes. I wonder if he’s been composing in bed. My whole body goes warm at the thought.

“Oh, here”—I shove my poorly wrapped gift toward him—“before I forget.”