The damp classroom smelled kinda like a hospital and like sausage at the same time. Someone was eating sausage in the back of the class.
At the edge of the desks, near the projector, Arthur and Noah were sitting. Arthur, a blond, had straw-light hair, messy and soft, falling over his forehead and framing his pale face. His features were delicate, almost porcelain: narrow lips, long a little-too-sad eyes, and cheekbones that threw shadows under the fluorescent lights. He wore a slightly wrinkled light shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Noah was the opposite: dark-haired, thin, hair almost black, short and straight, falling messy over his temples. His skin was warmer-toned, his eyes dark and watchful. Noah sat relaxed, more indifferent, one leg tucked under him; he held his phone and kept fiddling his thumb on the edge of the case like he was checking nothing had fallen off.
The teacher said, "Alright, since the pair before us finished talking about their talents, pair number six — come on up," in a monotone that made it sound like he really could not be bothered.
Arthur and Noah stood up. "You start," Noah said.
"You gotta be kidding!" Arthur shot back.
"No way I'm starting!" Noah didn't finish — the teacher cut him off sternly:
"Stop. Hurry up, other pairs gotta get theirs."
Noah sighed. "Fine, fine," he mumbled.
Noah looked at Arthur. Arthur sighed, then started: "So our talent is… uhmm," he stammered, "making films."
Noah grinned ear to ear, trying not to laugh. "So we made a movie," Arthur said.
"I think they know it already, dumbass," Noah added.
"Lemme focus," Arthur begged.
Arthur went to the teacher's desk, plugged in a flash drive. The projector blinked and a desktop popped up with a folder named "MOVIE_NOAH_DUMBASS"… When Arthur noticed the title he freaked out and started flailing his hands. "I didn't name that, someone got into my laptop, seriously," Arthur insisted.
"Don't click that other one!" Noah whispered, seeing a folder called 'PORN_AND_GOOD_LADIES.'
"Chill, I know what I'm doing," Arthur said, but his hands were shaking.
The teacher sat with a face that said patient resignation, and someone in the back yawned so loud an echo bounced off the walls.
The film started.
On screen was a forest. Well — three trees in a city park — but the camera shook so much it was hard to tell. You could hear cars and a dog barking in the background.
Out of the bushes popped an elf — Noah in a green blanket patched with fake leaves and paper ears. He held a bow made from a stick and an elastic band.
"I'm… uh… Elandor, yeah Elandor! Guardian of the northern woods!" he declared dramatically, glancing to make sure Arthur was actually recording.
Cut.
A knight came out from behind a shrub — Arthur with a metal bucket on his head and a pot lid as a shield. "And I, Sir Arthus, have come to challenge thee!" he bellowed, trying to sound threatening but it came out like he was choking.
Laughter from the far end of the class. "Oh fuck! Haha! What a piece of shit!" someone yelled.
"Hey! No swearing!" the teacher raised his voice.
On screen Noah tried to pull the bowstring but the elastic snapped and smacked him in the forehead. "Ow, fuck— damn…" Noah muttered under his breath.
Suddenly the footage cut, and a Comic Sans title card appeared: "THE END. THANKS FOR WATCHING."
Silence.
Somebody cleared their throat in the back. The teacher paused a moment, then said, "…Well, at least you showed effort."
Arthur and Noah looked at each other. "So… did we get points?" Noah asked shyly. "For creativity," the teacher said after a beat. "And for bravery."
––
A cold wind carried the smell of smoke from the first bonfires. Leaves rustled under their shoes as Arthur and Noah walked down the avenue toward the hill. Town lights flickered on the horizon and tree shadows stretched in the dim afternoon light.
"You gonna go sit at the graves this year?" Arthur asked.
"Nope. I'll be busy."
"With what?"
"I'm going fishing with my dad on the holiday. Graves are out… Maybe I'll swing by at night."
"We always spend Halloween at the graves. What's up with you?" Arthur sounded surprised.
"I wanna spend some time different. By myself," Noah said, pensive.
"You wanna come over?" Arthur asked.
"Yeah."
––
Night. The sky was already dark and it was pissing down… Rain hammered the sill like an old drummer, wind adding a chill and a nice whoosh to the room.
Arthur sat on the floor leaning against the bed with a bowl of caramel popcorn on his lap. Noah lay next to him, legs propped on the desk, holding the remote trying to find anything.
"I told ya there's nothing on TV," Noah muttered.
"You got no taste, no sense."
"You're talking nonsense — if ya had the remote… we'd be searching till tomorrow."
"You're the same dumbass."
Arthur sighed, dug into the popcorn and tossed a kernel at Noah. It hit Noah's cheek; he turned fast and his face met the bed… Noah winced and grabbed the side of his head where he'd just bumped.
"You idiot!" Noah shouted, eyes fixed on the screen. "You made me hurt myself!"
"Not my fault you're blind and not paying attention." Noah snorted a laugh. Arthur smiled. Noah's laugh was contagious. "I figure art requires pain… You could say art is everything around us," Arthur added with a more serious tone.
"Huh?" Noah said, confused. "And so?"
"We've got next week off," Arthur said.
"I know."
"Maybe we should do something? I dunno… movie number two?"
Noah looked up. "I don't feel like it."
Arthur laughed, then handed Noah the popcorn. "Oh come on, c'mon! I promise this one's gonna be way better!" "Promise?" "Promise."
They ate, sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. Greasy popcorn prints on their fingers. "The world's small and gentle," Arthur thought.
Noah fell asleep first. Arthur watched him — head on the pillow, hair messy, hand hanging off the bed. He turned off the TV. The room went dark.
Arthur stood in his doorway holding his phone. "I've got like over a hundred hours of footage…" he thought.
A hundred hours of Noah's life. "Noah probably doesn't have much time left," he said aloud with a stone face.
Words stuck in his throat. He knew he should feel sad, but inside there was emptiness. "So why… don't I feel sorry?…"
"Do I even have a heart?"
For a second something twitched inside him. A sharp, barely noticeable tightening in his chest.
"Do I have a heart?"
––
A few days passed.
The hospital room door opened with a creak like the hinges were screwed in real bad.
Two people saw each other…
Arthur noticed Noah lying in the bed, and Noah noticed Arthur walking in.
Arthur held flowers, beautiful roses — you could smell them even from the doorway.
Noah's eyes went straight to them.
"You being romantic or you just didn't want to buy these for my funeral so you give 'em now?" Noah said, a little smile painted on his face.
"I wanted to be nice… Plus my mom told me I had to," Arthur answered, head down.
"It's cool, why so glum?"
"Nothing, just…" he stopped. "When're you gonna get better?" he finally asked.
Noah didn't say a word.
They stood in that awkward quiet a while… Hearing nurses' footsteps, noises from the next room, but nothing else.
"It's not gonna get better."
Arthur frowned and rubbed his head.
"Why didn't you say earlier, even though you knew…?"
"I thought I had more time, and it wasn't that bad before… Sorry."
–––
Morning.
Arthur woke up frozen, snuggled in a soft, rumpled duvet. The first sunbeams cut across the room, leaving golden streaks on his face and his pale, messy hair.
In his ears was the muffled but clear "chirp, chirp" — birds singing, calling him back to wakefulness. He squeezed his eyes like he could hold the image that was slipping away.
A dream… It came back.
The ache in his chest eased as memory unrolled like an old, forgotten scroll. For a second he saw his face — the last frame he'd stored in his head. Not joy. Not fear. Just that stupid, annoying, yet so-very-him expression. Iwa-chan.
He sighed. It was only a shadow.
"He… I dreamed him," he mumbled to the pillow, not really believing it. "Nonsense."
Arthur turned toward the empty side of the bed. He pressed his face into the mattress like he wanted to melt into the sheets. A thin grey blanket wrapped his shoulders. Everything felt heavier than it should. He sniffed.
A quiet, stifled sob. Trembling breaths locked deep in his chest. The room that was usually his sanctuary felt too small, too stuffy. Stacks of books on the shelves, the monitor off, a jacket slumped from the chair to the floor — daylight exposed his mess and his emptiness. "I remember all that time with Noah. I know he didn't like art and was closed off to any expression… That's kinda empty…" he thought, then smacked his hand to his head. "You don't talk bad about the dead…"
He sobbed louder and louder.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a violent noise.
The door shook from pounding.
"Breakfast's ready!" a voice rang, bright and lively, full of energy…
It was just a film, though… based on facts.
Arthur's film played and played…
Half the people watching dozed off, the other half ran out claiming they had to go to the bathroom…
And Arthur…
Arthur stood by the projector and buried his face.
The air felt heavier than summer heat. Even though the sky was clear, Arthur felt like the ground had opened. He wasn't in the classroom, or the school corridor or anywhere — he was watched by disgusting creatures who laughed at him, slithered toward him, pulling at his leg.
Walls closed in made of twisted wood grain, or maybe the fibers of his own torn mind. Around and underfoot and above, shadowy shapes like spoons, forks, knives — everything — spun.
"Terrible artist." "You're shit."
They screamed from every crack.
"I hide my feelings… impossible…" he thought, sweating. "Just go out and say it right." he muttered.
The cold, hard floor felt strangely gentle. He fell to his knees and the world of whirling words and shadows collapsed. He heard a voice — but it was only in his head.
It was Noah's voice.
"You alive? You good?" Noah asked gently, and Arthur turned toward his imagination and slapped himself in the face.
"You're not here… Don't try to comfort me if you already ruined a few years of my life by dying…"
–––
"What do I think of this 'Film'?" the responder repeated the question. "Sorry for the language, but it sucked."
–––
"I don't even know if I should comment on this piece of 'art'… This film was great… I'm joking. It would've been great if the whole film was a black screen with no sound or anything."
–––
"I don't think this is morally right… Does Noah's family even know?"
––
Arthur sat on the roof, phone camera pointed at his face.
"I'd really like to apologize for this whole film… I mainly wanna apologize to the dearly departed Noah, and to his family for this recording… I promise my pocket money'll go to Noah's family to help pay for the funeral," he blurted, then hung his head. "I really didn't mean for it to look like this… So I decided to kill myself as a spiritual payment for this film."
Arthur stopped recording, shoved the phone in his pocket… took shaky, nervous steps to the roof railing, and when he put his trembling hands on it he heard a familiar voice…
"Am I interrupting?" Noah asked.
"Again you? But you're dead… Don't fuck with me."
"No… Don't fool yourself, the film really was awful…" Noah said, then fell silent. "So you gotta try, and make something better… How selfish is it how scared you are to face your problems. You think I'd pat you on the head if you just jumped?"
"Of course not."
"Then don't do it… You've always been a coward, all talk, hiding behind me like a rat… And when I disappear, you think there's no place for you either?"
Arthur clutched his head.
"Shut up already. Let me die in peace and stop nagging me, you piece of shit!" Arthur shouted.
"You're too dumb to get it… You're chosen… You're gifted with the ability to make the perfect work. 'Memorialize me' — that's what you want to hear, right?"
"What are you rambling about?" Arthur asked, confused.
"Your divine duty, your calling is art. You're a proud person who should turn that pride into a work."
"Whaddya mean?" Arthur asked, a drop of sweat sliding down his forehead.
"Didn't ya once say that… art comes from grief and loss? 'Only a work pushed to perfection has any reason to exist,' — that's exactly how you put it, right? — Turn that pride, that perfectionism into the perfect piece of art."
––
Rain fell in thick, short bursts, like from a rifle. Drops pounded on the tin awning, ran down the gutter and split into little rivers across the asphalt path to the school gate. Arthur stood by a low wall. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his skin cold.
"Man, it's freezing… I left my jacket at home…" he muttered.
For a moment he stood still, like he was thinking about something. Then — suddenly, outta nowhere — a smile spread across his face. A little laugh slipped out, mixing with the rain.
He jumped. Not far, not dramatic — he just hopped up like a kid who'd just found out he could clear a puddle. Water sprayed from under his feet and he nearly tripped. Another laugh burst out of him, louder, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
The rain kept falling, but the drops started to weirdly brighten. First a slice of sun cut through the clouds like a razor; then another. The clouds slowly parted. Sunbeams fell right beside Arthur.
He stood in that light, soaking, his skin stinging from the contrast between cold and sudden heat. His socks were wet, his shoes rubbing blisters, and mud stained his knees.
Then he saw Noah — also dripping, even dirtier than Arthur at that moment… his whole body gleamed from the sunlight and the rain that kept falling.
"I wish he was here…" he said to himself.
–––
Arthur sat at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers.
"Where do I even start…" he said out loud, scratching his chin. "I remember he used to have long hair… looked like a girl, and we were just kids… I thought he was a girl and used to give him flowers every day — I liked him. I still remember my face when he cut his hair and I found out he was a boy for the first time… I dunno why I ignored the fact his name was clearly a guy's name, plus he played with boy toys, not girl ones…" He paused. "Nah. Better not put that in. Too damn embarrassing." He sighed. "Noah…" he whispered the name.
Arthur rested his forehead on the cold wood of the desk. "You were so stiff, you know that?" he said to the emptiness. "Even when you tried to act all tough. It's true… I always was, still am, and probably always will be a coward, but you… You were only confident when you talked big. Maybe I did hide behind you, but that don't change anything." Arthur's lips lifted in a faint smile. "I could see it — all that bravado came from fear…"
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, his gaze fell on his laptop screen.
The desktop still had that same folder — "FILM_NOAH_DUMBASS."
"Changed that name like a hundred times… still feels wrong."
Arthur smiled weakly.
"Sometimes I think your stiffness was kinda art in itself" he said quietly.
Silence.
Arthur ran his hand across the desk, stopping at a thin scratch in the wood.
It reminded him of the scar on Noah's hand — the one from when they'd cut themselves trying to make a fake sword for filming.
"You idiot…" he whispered softly. "Even then, you were stiff about it. Instead of letting me help, you bandaged it yourself… What, were you scared to let me in? I was open with you…"
He closed his eyes again.
When he opened them, he looked into the stillness of his room.
"I miss your stiffness" he admitted in a whisper. "Without it, I'm the stiff one now."
Inside Arthur's mind, an image flickered…
Noah and Arthur were in a restaurant, devouring burgers, fries, all that stuff.
"What do you think about life? What do you think your talent is?" Arthur asked, eyes sparkling.
"Huh?" Noah tilted his head, puzzled.
"Look… don't you think art is truly beautiful?" Arthur asked.
"Not my thing, man." Noah answered, half-closing his eyes.
"You're so damn stiff!" Arthur laughed, smacking him lightly on the head.
"Ow!" Noah yelped.
"Focus…" Arthur leaned closer to him. "I believe only a piece of art pushed to perfection deserves to exist. Everything else is fake, a compromise, or a half-truth. Every flaw is, in a way, a personal failure… A scar on the work is a scar on the artist. It's the real emotions — especially pain and longing that give birth to the most beautiful things… I wanna use that in art someday."
"You talk crap, man." Noah said, standing up from the table.
Arthur blinked, pulled back to the present.
"That was funny… really kinda funny…" he whispered to himself.
His hands trembled. He opened the recordings folder, saw Noah — his gestures, his expressions, fragments of their talks. Each frame burned now, like being thrown into fire, pulled out, and thrown back again, over and over. The footage looked like proof of his own cowardice.
"Have I lost my damn mind? What went wrong? Too many jokes, this was supposed to be serious…" Every thought, every note, felt worse and worse and worse.
He straightened his back. Sheets piled up beside the laptop. Pencils moved on their own; his fingers started to sing across the paper.
He sketched scenes with surgical precision.
First shot: Noah's hand closing a window; sound — hinge creak, street noise.
Static camera. Long silence.
Then a cut — Noah walking in the rain, droplets hanging midair.
He drew storyboards: rectangles filled with small sketches, arrows marking camera motion, sound notes scribbled at the side.
The self-criticism that had once been a blade turned against him began to change shape — it became a tool that helped him instead of a knife cutting into his heart.
–––
The first person interviewed was the biology teacher.
"Noah was always kind and cheerful. I remember how much time you two used to spend together during breaks… I believe he helped you open up to new people," she said.
---
Next was a classmate.
"Noah was a little troublemaker," he said, smiling weakly. "Sick dude, totally cracked me up."
---
A girl from class.
"He used to correct everyone," she mumbled. "If somebody left shoes out, he'd line 'em up. If somebody left a bike, he'd shove it back where it belonged. People thought it was polite, but he did it with this… seriousness. He'd say, 'You shouldn't leave that.' It annoyed me, all that… But still—may he rest in peace."
---
When night had fallen, Arthur sat alone in half-darkness, hit play and let the voices come back to him like an echo.
And then, between words, he heard him — Noah's laugh skipping from one recording to the next. Arthur paused the tape and looped it.
"Why ya doin' that?" he heard beside him; he turned his head and saw Noah.
"'Cause I want ya to talk about me real," Noah said.
"Real don't mean nice," Noah answered. "Real means without smoothing things over. Why make me soft just so others feel better? You think that's what I'd want?"
Arthur turned in his chair like someone in the room might answer. But it was only him and his voice, boldly stepping in between the recordings.
"I wanna remember you perfect, so I can think of you that way… What if I forget ya? With a film like that, it'd be impossible," he stammered. "I wanna show ya were perfect."
"Perfect?" Noah asked. "That sounds nice. You don't wanna just take me gently. You wanna tear me apart and then glue me back into somethin' that fits your film."
"I don't wanna make you ugly," Arthur whispered to the hallucination. "I don't wanna use the private stuff just to tug at an audience. I want people to get that you were amazing to me…"
Arthur closed his eyes and let the recording play on.
"I wanna connect with ya spiritually, Noah… So why're ya mad at me…?" Arthur asked, desperate.
"You're startin' to forget who I really was… I wouldn't want that."
Do I remember Noah, or only the recordings?
On the desk lay tapes, flash drives, notes, old sketches. On the floor — crumpled pages, each one a trace of a version of the film Arthur didn't like. Arthur sat in the middle of it all, hunched, his face pressed into his hands.
The monitor glowed like a hot breath. The cursor blinked where the timeline ended. He scrolled back to the start.
Arthur leaned back in the chair. He hit play. The film started.
Not Noah — just his idea of Noah.
"I can't give it like this," he said out loud though no one was in the room. "It's ugly. I don't like it…"
He stood, went to the window, leaned on the sill. The city slept, only a few lights below.
He started shaking.
"Everything's ugly. Everything."
He grabbed the mouse, scrolled to the middle sequence. Noah's face on the screen. For a moment he sat in silence, staring at dead pixels.
"That's not you," he whispered.
He hit Delete. Then Undo. Pressed it again. Undid it.
Silence.
"Do it."
"Stop bein' a coward."
Arthur froze. "No…"
"Do it."
"I don't know if I can," he said to the void.
"Don't prettify me. Let me breathe."
Arthur reached for his sketchbook. Opened it to a blank page. Then he exported the file. A plain name: NOAH_FINAL.mov
Before he clicked "Save", he glanced once more at the list of versions. NOAH_RAW_1 NOAH_REDO_4 NOAH_EDIT_FINAL2 NOAH_REAL NOAH_LAST_TRUE
He deleted them in one sweep.
"Do it."
He clicked.
The file saved. The computer fan whirred, then fell quiet. Arthur sat back down, hands on his knees, eyes closed.
Arthur breathed out. He stood, went to the door and turned the key in the lock.
"I'm done," he said.
"No, Arthur."
---
Arthur set the camera on a tripod across from the couch. Tea cups, drawings in the sketchbook. The camera looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked at the camera.
He turned on a test recording.
Arthur tensed and started to fake it. At first it sounded ridiculous but then something in him loosened.
"I ruined him," he said, looking straight into the lens. "I ruined him 'cause I tried to keep him."
After a series of tries he switched modes: he started playing Noah.
"'What're ya doin'?' " he tried with Noah's voice. "'You're tryin' to make me into a god? Into somethin' I wasn't? You gone mad?'"
On the recording it came off clumsy; in the house, on his face, the sound felt false.
Before shame could hit, he rifled through tapes, fast-forwarding, stopping scenes. And then — he found it. There, between torn takes, in the quiet frames, lay a full-bellied laugh: Noah ruining the scene. Not a deliberate, staged "ruining" with mean intent, but a moment of absolute, accidental joy. A file named "PORN_AND_GOOD_LADIES" — which didn't mean what the title sounded like…
Noah was flicking the camera with his fingers, starting to lose it, someone shouts "Noah!", and he laughs harder, barely catching his breath.
Arthur played that clip over and over. The first time he felt a pang in his chest: "I coulda left this in." The second time — Noah's laugh hit him like a slap of freshness: a reminder that Noah was a person, not a manufactured character for a film.
Then, for the first time in weeks, he felt a real, clean reaction — a laugh. A low laugh that spread through his whole body. His face lit up from the inside. Noah's laugh felt like an invitation.
Arthur suddenly understood — What the hell am I doin'? Am I completely nuts? Haha!
He sat in the half-light and thought about how often in the edit bay he hit "Delete."
He stood. Walked slowly to the table where a pile of tapes, flash drives and notes lay. He pulled one of the oldest — the one where Noah's ruining the scene — and dropped it into the timeline of the new project. He needed one simple move: leave the uncomfortable bit. He added rough transitions, let the silence be silent. He put the clipped laughs at the center of the narrative.
After a few hours… He pushed back from the monitor, went to the window. Outside, the night was still young. "Tomorrow I'll make Noah happy one last time."
---
The hall was full of people, but there was a hush so deep Arthur could hear his own heart beat. He sat off to the side, away from the row of chairs where people whispered. The screen at the far end of the room was huge and blank, white like a wall that light hadn't found yet.
The air smelled of dust, gear and nerves.
The janitor nodded.
The first few seconds of the film were a nauseating mash of completely random, mismatched things.
Shots were jagged, sounds layered on top of each other, it hurt the ears. School, hospital, streets.
Silence.
On the screen Noah sat on a bed, in hospital sheets, his face lit by sunlight. The camera shook.
"Stop recording," he said, yawning. Arthur behind the camera: "Just a bit longer." "No, really." "Just a bit longer." Noah looked away.
Nobody in the room laughed. Someone coughed. Someone else breathed too loud.
The film moved on — into fragments of conversations, some without sound, others distorted. Laughter, crying, the snap of tape.
Then the screen went dark. Words appeared — handwritten, white letters on a black background.
Arthur stood. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. The mic was loud so he had to step back a bit. He opened the paper. His hands trembled, the letters wavered before his eyes. He began to read.
"I don't know how this should end. I made a film that was supposed to be beautiful, but it isn't. It's incomplete, dirty, unassembled. Like Noah, who the film is about. I can't separate Noah from what I think of him. So it's not about Noah, but about me and him…" he said, nervously.
He fell silent. He didn't look at anyone. He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. He returned to his seat.
On the screen, in the last frame, Noah sat on the curb and said something, but there was no sound.
The screen went black. Light came back into the room. For a moment there was total silence — that real kind where you can only hear your pulse. Then someone stood, someone clapped timidly, then another person. Arthur heard the sound of applause as if through water. He didn't move, 'cause the applause didn't mean much to him.
He left through the back doors before the lights came fully up.
---
The cemetery was nearly empty. Just the rustle of trees, the wind, and the smell of earth after rain.
Arthur walked slowly, hands in his pockets, head bowed.
Leaves stuck to his shoes. The sky was the color of steel.
He stopped at Noah's grave. There wasn't much — a simple stone, a name, two dates.
Born January 3, 2006
Died October 12, 2023
Someone had left a fresh candle, someone else flowers. Arthur put a small stone from the street beside it.
He sat down. He didn't say anything at first. He looked at the name, at the carved letters, like he was trying to understand their shape.
"I showed it," he finally said. "It… came out! I don't know if you would've liked it. You'd probably have told me off. Or laughed at me." He closed his eyes. "But I guess it ain't about makin' folks like it anymore, right?"
A gust of wind flipped a leaf that landed on the stone. Arthur leaned over and brushed it away gently.
"I miss ya," he whispered. "But I'm more used to it."
He lay down next to the grave, on the cold grass.
He fell asleep by the grave, his head on the damp ground.
Love is like a Film