Everyone thought they hated each other, but the boy knew better.

He knew that they just acted, put on a performance. But when they were alone, they would sit and talk for hours over a pot of tea.

During the day, the two were busy; one cared for the plants, and one cared for the child. But at night, they would retire (quietly, of course), to one bedroom.

The boy suspected that they talked quite a bit through the night as well. He also suspected that they weren’t all they seemed. Odd things happened around them, and he was the only one who noticed.

He never told anyone when he saw them together. He thought that people should get to enjoy each other’s company. And the boy hated starting rumors.

So, he would watch them from afar and wonder when they’d gain the confidence to start spending time together out in the open, where everyone could see.

He hoped they would find the courage. Because it would prove to him that whatever he was feeling in himself at the moment was alright. That it was a good thing.

That he wasn't hellspawn.

The boy hid behind the park bench, on the corner of the street where their apartment was, watching the stolen glances, the two single beds pushed together, the two toothbrushes sharing a single cup, the way one always left the kettle warm for the other. It was a Sunday, which meant the childminder, Mr. Begum, was pretending to be cross about the post not coming, and the plant carer, Mr. Fenwick, was pretending not to hear him as he watered the window boxes. From behind the bench, the boy could see everything. Mr. Fenwick's watering can had been empty for a full minute, and he was still tilting it over the same geranium.

"It's drowned, you know," Mr. Begum called down from the stoop, arms folded. "You've drowned it."

"Plants don't drown," said Mr. Fenwick, not looking up.

Mr. Begum sniffed, but he was smiling at the doorframe. Mr. Fenwick was smiling at the geranium. Neither of them was smiling at the other, but the boy knew that this didn't matter. A tiny flower on the geranium opened, then another and another until the whole window box burst into pink. Mr. Fenwick hid his hands in his pockets quickly, and followed Mr. Begum inside. The boy blinked and decided, as usual, that he hadn't seen it.

Odd things, he thought. Good odd things.

In his coat pocket, his fingers found the folded paper he had been carrying around for six days now.

Do you want to walk home together on Monday?

Underneath, he had written, and rubbed out: Because I like you.

The intended recipient was named Jonah Reyes. Last week he had lent the boy a pencil and said, "Keep it, I've got loads," and the boy had not slept properly since.

He had told no one.

Across the street, the front door opened again. Mr. Fenwick came out, and for one second, so quickly the boy almost missed it, Mr. Begum's hand appeared from inside and gave his sleeve a small tug and Mr. Fenwick stilled, ears reddening. Then the door closed, and he stood alone on the step, grinning at nothing. They were so careful. They'd built a whole performance, the bickering and the stiff nods, because they were afraid of what people would think. And still, in the cracks, it leaked out anyway: the flowers, the warm kettle, the tug on a sleeve. Something that big couldn't be hidden. It was too much like sunlight.

If it's that bright, the boy thought, how can it be wrong?

He unfolded the note and read it one more time. His heart was thudding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. Then he stood up, brushed the leaves off his trousers, and stepped out from behind the bench.

Mr. Fenwick spotted him and raised a hand. "Afternoon! Ought to be inside, you know. Looks like rain."

The boy nodded and crossed the street. He stopped at the bottom of the stoop, where a row of petunias had turned to face him like a tiny audience.

"Mr. Fenwick?" he said. "How do you know when you're brave enough to do something?"

Mr. Fenwick looked at the window box, at the pink-geranium explosion. He looked, finally, at the boy.

"I don't think you ever know," he said quietly. "I think you just get tired of being afraid, and you do it anyway."

The boy swallowed. He tucked the note back into his pocket, straightened his shoulders, and made a promise to himself. He would hand over the note, and whatever Jonah said, he would still be exactly who he was. Behind him, in the window above the stoop, a curtain twitched. Two figures stood very close behind the glass.

The boy didn't turn around. But he smiled all the way home.