Page 69 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“He doesn't?—”

“He does. Trust me. I notice things. It's literally my job.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the snow. “Just. Be careful, yeah? But also be brave enough to actually live. Those two things aren't mutually exclusive.”

“Have you ever wanted a life you're not allowed to have?” I asked quietly.

Her expression shifted. Understanding settling like snow. “All the time.”

“How do you live with that? Knowing what you want and knowing you can't have it?”

“Depends on what we're talking about.” She was watching me carefully, giving me space to say more or retreat. “Some things are impossible because of circumstance. War, distance, timing. Those you wait out, hope for better conditions. But others...”

“Others are impossible because they're forbidden,” I finished. “Because wanting them is itself a crime.”

Silence stretched between us, weighted with things unsaid. Radio crackled in the background. Someone across the room coughed. And Noor sat very still, processing what I hadn't quite admitted.

“Art,” she said finally. “Are you telling me you're queer?”

The word landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward, impossible to recall once spoken.

My breath caught. “I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.” Her voice held no judgment, just sad certainty. “I've wondered. The way you never talk about girls. The way you watch certain people when you think no one's looking. The coded language you slip into sometimes.”

“Polari,” I said without thinking. “It's called Polari.”

“I know what it's called. My uncle uses it. Used it.” Past tense. Pain flickering across her face. “He got arrested two years ago. Entrapment. Public lavatory. They gave him two years hard labor and chemical treatment.” She looked away. “He's out now but he's not. Not really. They broke something in him that can't be fixed.”

Horror washed over me, cold and absolute. Her uncle. Someone she'd loved, someone who'd been kind and whole and alive, reduced to a broken thing by laws that called love a crime.

That could be me. That could be Tom if anyone suspected, if anyone saw, if I made one wrong move or said one true thing.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

“Me too.” She turned back, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Which is why I'm telling you to be careful. Whatever you're feeling for Tom, however he makes you feel seen or safe or wanted, you have to be so bloody careful.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because you've been getting bolder. Teaching him Polari. Spending more time together than necessary. Looking at him like he hung the moon and stars.” She gripped my hand, sudden and tight. “I see it because I know what to look for. But someone else might see it too. Someone less kind.”

“Finch already suspects me of something. Probably not this, but if he starts looking hard enough...”

“Then he'll find it. Men like Finch always find what they're looking for, whether it exists or not.” She squeezed my fingers once and let go. “I'm not telling you to stop feeling what you feel. That's impossible. But maybe stop showing it quite so obviously.”

She was right. I knew she was right. Every interaction with Tom was a risk, every moment of softness a potential weapon that could be used against us both. The smart thing, the safe thing, would be to pull back. Maintain professional distance. Stop teaching him words that revealed too much about who I was.

But the thought of that, of retreating back into isolation after having tasted connection, made my chest ache with anticipated loss.

“What if I don't want to hide?” The question came out small, almost childish. “What if I'm tired of pretending I don't want what I want?”

“Then you'll end up like my uncle. Broken in ways that can't be mended.” Her voice was fierce now, urgent. “Art, I love that you're brave enough to want. But bravery doesn't protect you from the law. It just makes the fall hurt more.”

My throat tightened. “So I just. Live without. Forever.”

“I don't know. Maybe after the war things will be different. Maybe there will be space for people like you, like my uncle, to exist without hiding.” She didn't sound convinced. “But right now, during wartime, with Finch hunting for traitors and everyone watching everyone else? Right now you survive by being careful.”

“Thank you,” I managed. “For understanding. For not...”

“For not what? Hating you? Reporting you?” She looked genuinely offended. “Art, you're my friend. I don't care who you want to kiss as long as they treat you well and don't break your heart. But I do care whether you survive this bloody war intact enough to have a future.”