Somewhere Only We Know - 1. First Days

Kitt Wellington learned Lakehurst High by sound long before he could map any of its corners. The building pulsed with noise—lockers slamming like off-beat drums, sneakers squeaking over waxed floors, bursts of laughter ricocheting off walls. The PA system buzzed every time the secretary’s voice tried to claw its way through the static, turning even simple announcements into a low electric hum that threaded through the hall. It wasn’t chaotic to the other students. But to Kitt—raised in a neatly quiet house where voices softened after dinner and footsteps were measured—this place felt like stepping into a river without knowing how deep the water went. He stood by the wall, hoping to blend into the background, when a familiar voice cut clean through the noise.

"Kitt!"

Matt Everest jogged toward him, waving with the type of ease that made people naturally part around him. He carried two textbooks under one arm and breakfast in the other—chocolate milk sloshing dangerously, a muffin held hostage by three fingers. Matt moved with a kind of unintentional charisma, the kind that drew attention even when he wasn’t doing anything remarkable. Kitt tensed, worried the hallway’s eyes would latch onto him too, but Matt didn’t seem to notice or care.

"I saved you a seat in homeroom. Second row by the window. Best spot unless you want to nap."

Kitt felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He hadn’t meant to smile, but Matt had that effect—easy, warm, persistent like sunlight pressing through blinds.

"Okay."

Matt’s grin broadened as if that single syllable was some quiet reward he’d been working toward.

They walked the halls together. Matt narrated the school the way someone might give a guided tour through a place that had shaped him: the cafeteria hash browns that were either divine or disastrous depending on the batch; the gym that reeked of sweat fighting lemon cleaner; the teachers who cared too much, the teachers who cared too little, the teachers who shouldn’t be teaching at all. Kitt listened carefully, committing every detail to memory, as if the right pieces of information might make it easier to breathe here.

After a few minutes, he asked, almost shyly, "Do you always talk this much?"

Matt froze mid-step, his face twisting into playful offense.

"What, you don’t like my voice?"

Kitt’s ears went hot. "I—no—I mean, yes—no, I don’t mind it."

Matt laughed. It was warm and loose, like something that couldn’t hurt you.

"Relax. It’s good to have someone to talk to."

Someone. Talk to. The words landed softly, unsettling something he didn’t have a name for yet.

Homeroom passed in a quiet rhythm. Matt scribbled jokes in the margin of his notebook, sliding them toward Kitt like smuggled contraband. Kitt responded with tiny eyebrow lifts or barely-there exhales that Matt exaggeratedly pretended were side-splitting. When the bell rang, the room erupted into motion, but Matt paused long enough to look at Kitt with that bright, sure expression of his.

"Meet me at lunch, okay? Left tables by the big windows."

Kitt nodded, even as nervousness tugged under his ribs. Lunch meant attention. Attention meant eyes. And being next to Matt Everest—who seemed to know everyone, who seemed to belong everywhere—meant even more eyes. Before Kitt could spiral into doubt, Matt tapped his desk twice like a quiet promise and jogged out.

Kitt gathered his books slowly. His phone buzzed—a message from his father.

Be home straight after school. No delays.

Just seven words, but they pressed down with the weight of expectation he’d been raised under. He pocketed the phone, inhaled once, and forced himself back into the river of students.

By lunchtime, he had half convinced himself Matt would forget him. But the moment he stepped into the cafeteria, Matt waved his entire arm like someone flagging down a boat. He sat with two teammates—big, loud, boyish in a way that filled the space around them.

"Kitt! Sit here."

The teammates introduced themselves. Before Kitt could fade into the background, Matt added proudly:

"He’s fast. Like ridiculously fast. He hasn’t even tried out for the swim team yet."

Kitt stared at him, startled. They’d known each other for barely a day.

"You told me you swim," Matt defended lightly. "And you’ve got swimmer shoulders."

Kitt nearly inhaled his water wrong. The table laughed—not at him, but around him, like laughter moved through Matt first and spread outward.

After lunch, when students scattered through the courtyard, Matt slowed his pace beside Kitt.

"You doing okay?" he asked, voice dipping softer. "First days can suck."

"It’s louder than I’m used to."

"Stick with me," Matt said, nudging his shoulder. "I’ll help you survive."

Something warm fluttered under Kitt’s ribs, so new it almost frightened him.

"Okay."

Matt jogged backward toward the gym, still facing him, still smiling as if he wanted to drag the moment out. Kitt watched him go and understood, with a quiet nervousness:

This boy could ruin him—not because Matt was dangerous, but because safety was.

He wasn’t prepared for someone to feel like that.

He didn’t expect Matt to keep showing up. But the second week looked like the first—Matt finding him in the crowd, waiting outside classrooms, falling into step beside him like it was natural, like they had always walked this way. Kitt didn’t talk much, but Matt filled silence like it was air he breathed easily. And Kitt found himself breathing a little easier too.

On Friday afternoon, Matt nudged him.

"You have to see the lake before the weather gets nasty."

"Right now?"

"Yeah. It’s close."

Kitt hesitated, thinking of the message waiting unread in his phone—straight home, no delays. But Matt noticed the pause and lowered his voice.

"It won’t take long. Promise."

The word promise did something to him.

"Okay."

Matt brightened immediately. They dropped their backpacks at his house—Matt wrote a note and stuck it to the door:

Went to lake w/ Kitt. Back soon!

Then they cut through the backyard, toward a narrow trail carved between pine trees. The air smelled sharp and cool, the ground soft under their shoes. Kitt followed, unsure whether he was stepping into a place meant for him.

"You come here often?" he asked.

"All the time. It’s like… our neighborhood secret. Everyone knows the spot but no one actually comes."

“I see.”

"You can come whenever," Matt added gently. "If you ever need space. Or somewhere that isn’t home or school."

Kitt didn’t understand why that made his chest tighten, but it did.

"I’ll try," he said quietly.

The lake appeared—still, glass-like, the sky mirrored across its surface. Matt sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling. Kitt sat too, careful, leaving space. Matt shifted closer without hesitation.

"You can sit here. I don’t bite."

Kitt moved a little.

They talked. Matt teased him about swimming. Kitt shrugged. Matt nudged him.

"Bet you’re great."

Kitt looked at the water, ears warm.

"You’re quiet," Matt said after a minute.

"Sorry."

"You don’t have to be. I like talking. And I like talking to you."

Kitt’s heart fluttered, soft and unsteady.

They walked back through the woods, arms brushing occasionally. Kitt didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. He just walked beside Matt, letting the closeness settle into something peaceful.

At Matt’s porch, he picked up his backpack.

"See you Monday?" Matt asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. I’ll save you a seat."

"Okay."

Kitt walked home with something small and warm blooming in him.

A month passed—not loudly, but not unnoticed. Matt became part of Kitt’s afternoons. They walked home together, visited the lake, wandered the edge of the forest trail, or simply sat somewhere talking about nothing. It wasn’t dramatic. It was steady, natural, the way certain routines slip into your life before you realize they matter.

Kitt’s home remained quiet, orderly, rule-bound. His father never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. Expectations were clear: homework first, chores next, phone off after eight, Sunday service without question. Kitt followed everything instinctively.

One evening, while setting the table, he said, "I ate lunch with Matt again today."

His father paused. "Who is he?"

"A boy in my grade. Lives across the street."

"Is he respectful?"

"Yes."

"Good. Be mindful of who you spend time with."

Kitt bit back what he wanted to say—that Matt was respectful, focused, kind, warm, everything good rolled into one person. But he stayed quiet.

Matt’s house was everything his wasn’t—lived-in, loud, cluttered with life rather than rules. Soccer cleats by the door. A stack of mail on the counter. Music from his sister’s room vibrating faintly through the floor. His mom hugged first and asked questions later. His dad greeted everyone loudly. His sister complained about homework with the confidence of someone who knew she’d be heard. Kitt wasn’t sure how to exist in a place like this, but he liked being there.

A little over a month after they met, Matt asked:

"You busy tonight?"

Kitt started to say yes—because he usually was—but Matt continued.

"Wanna come over? Mom’s making lasagna. We can watch something or do homework. Or I can fail fractions while you judge me."

"Like… a sleepover?"

"Yeah. If you want."

Kitt swallowed. "I’ll ask my parents."

Matt lit up. "Nice. If they say no, I’ll charm them."

That made Kitt laugh, unexpectedly soft.

Later at dinner, he said, "Matt invited me to a sleepover."

His father paused. "Finish your homework. Home by ten. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have fun," his mother added, gentle as always.

Permission settled strangely in Kitt’s chest.

That night, the Everest living room glowed with lamp light. Matt had laid out pillows, blankets, a mountain of snacks, and a stack of DVDs like he’d been preparing for weeks.

"You made all this?" Kitt asked.

"Yeah. Wanted it to be a good first sleepover."

First.

They settled on the floor. Matt tossed him the remote.

"Pick anything."

Kitt chose an action movie he’d always wanted to see. They whispered comments back and forth. At one point, Kitt laughed—full, unguarded. Matt looked over, eyes brightened by it.

"What?" Kitt asked.

"Nothing. Just… glad you’re having fun."

Later, as the movie flickered softly and sleep crept in, Kitt let his eyes close. He didn’t know what this was yet—what this friendship was becoming, what to call the warm ache in his chest—but he knew one thing:

I hope this doesn’t go away.

Not love.

Not yet.

Just comfort.

And for now, comfort was everything.