Chapter 70 – Mia Potter
My name is Mia Potter.
I've been Cody Anderson's neighbor for as long as I can remember. I live in the house next door, the one with neatly trimmed rose bushes and curtains always drawn. My mother says privacy is elegance. My father says the house has been too quiet ever since he stopped playing the piano. I… say it's home. Even if sometimes it feels like a library with no borrowed books.
I'm eighteen. Dark brown hair, eyes the same shade, and a ponytail my mother insists must be "properly tied." My clothes are simple: a lilac-and-white polo, blue jeans, pink earrings. I always carry books in my hands. Not out of habit. Out of necessity. Because in my house, studying is more than an activity. It's a way to earn affection.
My father, Harold, is different. He calls me "my little star" when he thinks Mom isn't listening. He leaves notes in the books I study, with doodles of cats and phrases like "don't forget you're more than your grades." Sometimes, when Mom goes to bed early, he puts on old movies and lets me stay on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolate. Those are the moments when I feel the world can be soft.
And then there's Cody.
Cody Anderson. My neighbor. The boy who was always there.
I met him in preschool. Well, I met him before, but that's my first clear memory. He was sitting on a rug, wearing a dinosaur t-shirt and a smile too big for his face. He offered me a cookie. I refused. My mother had told me not to accept food from other kids. But he didn't get offended. He just said: "That's okay. I'll save one for you later."
And that… stayed with me.
For years, Cody was part of the background of my life. Not the protagonist. Not absent. Background. Like the sound of wind in the leaves. Like the smell of freshly cut grass. Like the light coming through a window you don't notice.
He was kind. Sweet. A little clumsy. Always with strange ideas. Always with jokes I didn't quite understand. Always with an energy that seemed to ask permission to exist.
And I… watched him.
Not from far away. From the window. From the porch. From my quiet world.
Sometimes we talked. Sometimes he helped me with homework. Sometimes he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. And I… almost always said no.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I couldn't.
My mother had rules. Schedules. Expectations. And I… followed them.
But Cody never went away.
He never got upset. Never pressured me. Never made me feel bad for not being available.
He just stayed.
As if he knew that one day, I might say "yes."
I remember one afternoon in particular. We were three. I was in the garden, reading a history book. Cody rode by on his bike, stopped in front of my house, and waved.
"Are you reading for fun or for obligation?" he asked.
"For fun," I lied.
"And do you like history?" he insisted.
"I like understanding why people do what they do," I said.
He fell off his bike, sat on the grass, and started talking to me about Napoleon as if he were a comic book character. I… laughed. Truly. Not politely. With joy.
My mother came to the door and looked at him as if he were a threat.
"Cody, shouldn't you be at home?" she said.
He stood up immediately. "Yes, Mrs. Potter. I was just saying hello."
And he left.
I… stayed with the book open and my heart tight.
Because Cody was afraid of my mother.
And I… was too.
But deep down, I liked him.
Not the way you like someone in movies. The way you admire something you can't touch. The way you keep a song in your head without knowing its name.
Sometimes, when I saw him in class, I thought about what it would be like if I could talk to him without fear. If I could laugh without looking over my shoulder. If I could tell him I liked the way he saw the world.
But I never did.
Because I was Mia Potter.
Helen's daughter.
The girl who doesn't get distracted.
The one who doesn't fall in love.
The one who doesn't make mistakes.
And Cody… was the boy next door.
The one who didn't fit in.
The one who didn't know how to move in my world.
Until one day… he stopped showing up.
Not literally. But he stopped being at home. Stopped knocking on the door. Stopped asking if I needed help.
And I… noticed.
I didn't say it. I didn't show it. But I felt it.
Because Cody, even if he wasn't part of my routine, was part of my world.
And when I saw him again, weeks later, something was different.
Not essentially. He was still the Cody I knew. But there was a shadow in his eyes. A pause in his voice. A distance I didn't know how to name.
I asked if he was okay. He said yes.
I asked if he needed anything. He said no.
I asked if he wanted to study together. He said "maybe later."
And that "later"… never came.
Now I know he was changing.
That something in him was breaking. That something in him was rebuilding. That something in him was searching for a new way to exist.
But at that moment… I only felt I was losing him.
And that… hurt.
Not as a friend. Not as a neighbor. As someone who, without realizing it, had kept him in a corner of her heart.
Two months before the program, Cody was no longer the same.
But I… didn't know it yet.
I only knew that the boy who had always been there… no longer knocked on the door.
And I… was starting to wish he would.
---
The first time I saw him after weeks of not knowing about him was like watching a scene that didn't fit my routine. As if someone had changed the script without telling me.
It was Tuesday. I was leaving the stationery shop with a couple of new brushes for art class. The sun was low, gilding the rooftops, and the air smelled of paper dust and toasted bread. I walked down the sidewalk at a calm pace, thinking of nothing, when I saw him.
Cody.
But not the Cody I knew.
He was taller. Much taller. At least 5'11" (1.80 meters). His back was broad, his arms defined, his posture firm. He wore a gray t-shirt that fit a body that looked like it belonged in a movie, dark jeans, and a serene expression I had never seen on him before.
Oh, idiot. Literally. I froze, clutching the brushes to my chest as if they were a shield.
He saw me. Smiled.
"Hi, Mia," he said.
His voice was deeper. Clearer. More… confident.
"Hi," I answered, feeling my voice come out higher than usual.
And then, something curious.
He looked at me. Not like before. Not like the boy asking for permission. He looked at me as if I were someone worth looking at.
And that… made me smile.
Not out of vanity. Out of surprise.
Because for the first time, I felt Cody wasn't just there.
He was okay.
And I… wanted to know more.
The next day, at school, we were assigned teams for art class. And for some reason I still don't understand, the teacher put us together.
Cody and me.
At first, I thought it would be awkward. That we wouldn't know what to say. But no. It was fun. It was easy. It was… natural.
We sat at the same table, with brushes, sheets, and a palette of colors between us. The theme was "emotional contrasts." I had thought of painting two hands: one open, one closed. Cody suggested something more abstract.
"How about a spiral breaking into straight lines?" he said.
"And what does that represent?" I asked.
"The way people try to control what they feel," he replied.
And I… stayed silent.
Because that phrase touched something I didn't know I had been waiting for.
During that class, we talked more than in all the previous years combined. We discovered we liked the same music. That we both hated math. That we had a secret list of movies that made us cry.
"You cried at *The Iron Giant* too?" he asked.
"Who didn't?" I said.
"My cousin. But he has no soul," he replied.
And I… laughed.
Truly.
Not politely. With joy.
Cody had a way of speaking that wasn't like other boys. It wasn't loud. It wasn't arrogant. It was as if every sentence came with a hidden smile. As if every joke carried a layer of tenderness.
"Do you know what color I hate?" he said, while mixing paint.
Here's your passage translated into English, kept natural and faithful to your tone, without cutting too much:
---
**Which one?**
"Beige. It's the color of surrender."
"And mauve?" he asked.
"That's the color of secrets that don't dare become confessions," Cody said.
And I… just stared at him.
Because for the first time, I felt someone was speaking my language without me having to teach it.
After class, we walked together down the hallway. We didn't say much. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was shared.
"Have you always been like this?" I asked, not really knowing what I meant.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Like you know things other people don't."
He shrugged.
"Maybe I just learned to listen," he said.
And I… kept thinking about that all the way home.
That night, while we were eating dinner, my mother asked me how school had been. I told her fine. That art class had been interesting. That Cody was in my team.
She frowned. "Cody Anderson?"
"Yes."
"That boy was always… scattered."
"He isn't anymore," I said.
My father looked at me. Smiled. Said nothing.
But I… understood.
Because something was changing.
Not just in Cody.
In me.
---
The night before, while we were eating rice with vegetables and my mother was reviewing the family calendar, I gathered the courage to speak.
"Mom, Dad… can I invite Cody over tomorrow to study here at home?" I asked, with the firmest voice I could manage.
My mother looked up. Her right eyebrow arched as if she had just read a misspelled word.
"Cody Anderson?" Helen said.
"Yes. We have to prepare a project for art class. And we also want to review history. The exam is Friday," I replied.
My father lowered the newspaper. Looked at me over his glasses. Smiled.
"Is that the boy who lives next door? The one who always greeted you when you were little?" Harold asked.
"That's him," I said.
Helen closed the calendar with a slow gesture. Stayed silent for a few seconds. Then said:
"Fine. But in the living room. And with the door open."
"Of course," I said.
Harold gave me a thumbs up. "Tell him to bring good humor. And not to be scared if Helen tests him," he said, winking at me.
My mother didn't reply. But she didn't say no.
And that… was already a miracle.
The next day, Cody arrived on time. He rang the bell with a single press, as if he knew long sounds were frowned upon in my house. He carried a backpack on his shoulder, a notebook under his arm, and a calm smile.
I welcomed him at the door. Invited him in. Led him to the living room.
"Is here okay?" Cody asked.
"Perfect," I replied.
We sat on the sofa, books between us. We started with history. The French Revolution. Causes. Consequences. Contradictions.
"Do you think Robespierre was crazy or just too idealistic?" Cody asked, flipping through his notebook.
"I think he was trapped in his own logic," I replied.
"Like everyone who believes the end justifies the means," Cody said.
And I… kept thinking.
Then we moved on to art. The project on emotional contrasts. He had brought sketches. I had too. We laid them out on the table. Compared them. Discussed them.
"I like your broken spiral more than my closed hand," I said.
"Your closed hand makes me think of my mother when she doesn't want to talk," Cody said.
And I… laughed.
Not out of mockery. Out of complicity.
At that moment, we heard the front door.
My parents had returned from the supermarket.
Helen came in first, with a bag of vegetables and a neutral expression. Harold behind, carrying a box of milk and greeting cheerfully.
"Good afternoon!" Harold said.
Cody stood up immediately. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. Mrs. Potter," Cody said.
Helen looked at him. Evaluated him. Scanned him.
"Are you studying?" Helen asked.
"Yes. History and art," Cody replied.
"And what's your opinion of the French Revolution, Cody?" Helen asked, without sitting down.
Cody didn't hesitate.
"I think it was a warning. Of what happens when justice turns into vengeance," Cody said.
Helen looked at him. Nodded. Sat down in the armchair across from us.
"And the art? What are you working on?" Helen asked.
"A project on emotional contrasts," Cody replied.
"I'm working on a spiral that breaks into straight lines," Cody said.
Harold came closer. Looked at the sketches.
"And what does that represent?" Harold asked.
"The way people try to control what they feel," Cody said.
Harold scratched his chin. "That sounds like Helen when she organizes the family calendar," Harold said.
Helen looked at him. "I don't control. I structure," Helen said.
Cody smiled. "Sometimes structure is the most elegant way to protect yourself," Cody said.
Helen looked at him. For the first time, with something like respect.
"Do you like philosophy?" Helen asked.
"I like understanding why people believe what they believe," Cody said.
Harold sat on the arm of the chair. "And soccer? Do you like it?" Harold asked.
"I like playing it more than watching," Cody said.
And within minutes, they were talking about teams, goals, strategies.
Helen observed. Silent. Evaluating.
And I… observed too.
Because something was happening.
Cody wasn't just in my house.
He was entering it.
Not as an intruder.
As a guest.
As someone who could talk to my parents without fear.
As someone who could make me laugh without asking permission.
As someone who could stay.
After an hour, Helen stood up.
"Well. We won't interrupt anymore. Keep studying," Helen said.
Harold winked at Cody. "Good job, kid," Harold said.
And I… felt happy.
Not because of the project.
Because of the acceptance.
Because for the first time, Cody wasn't just the neighbor.
He was someone who could be with me.
And that… was enough.
For now.
---
It was Cody who invited me.
I didn't expect it. I was putting my brushes away in my backpack, thinking about how the mauve had dried badly on the cardboard, when he came over with that expression he now wore as if it were part of his skin: calm, confident, luminous.
"Do you have plans after class?" Cody asked.
"Just reviewing history. Why?" I said.
"I need to buy paint for the project. I'm missing warm tones. Want to come with me?" Cody asked.
"Sure," I said, before thinking too much.
And so, we walked together down the sidewalk, with the sun filtering through the trees and the air smelling of dry leaves and new paper. Cody carried his backpack on his shoulder, and every step of his seemed to have rhythm. As if the world moved to the beat of his stride.
The art store was on a quiet street, between a veterinary clinic and a bakery. The sign read "Colorama," and the inside was an organized chaos of tubes, brushes, papers, and jars of murky water.
"Looking for something in particular?" asked the owner, a man with a rough voice and ink-stained hands.
"Acrylic paint. Orange, blue, gray, and… mauve," Cody said.
"Mauve?" the man asked, smiling.
"Yes. It reminds me of you," Cody said.
And I… felt something.
Not like a blow. Like a breeze.
Soft. Present. Unexpected.
While we chose the colors, Cody started joking.
"Did you know orange is the color of people who don't know if they're happy or confused?" Cody said.
"And blue?" I asked.
"Blue is the color of people who think too much before saying what they feel," Cody said.
"Then I'm blue with touches of gray," I said.
"And I'm orange with broken spirals," Cody said.
We laughed. The owner looked at us with a discreet smile. He rang us up. We left.
And I… didn't want the moment to end.
It wasn't just that I liked being with him. It was that I liked how I felt when I was with him.
Light.
Present.
Alive.
We walked down the sidewalk, the bag of paint between us, and then Cody stopped in front of a music store.
"Do you mind if we go in? I need a flute for music class," Cody said.
"Of course. I love this store," I said.
The inside smelled of wood and new strings. Guitars hung like jewels. Keyboards gleamed under warm lights. The air was full of invisible notes.
A young man with curly hair and a black t-shirt greeted us from the counter.
"Looking for something in particular?" the clerk asked.
"A flute. Simple. But not one that sounds like a toy," Cody said.
The clerk guided him to a display case. Showed him three models. Cody examined them carefully, as if he were choosing more than an instrument.
While he spoke with the clerk, I approached an acoustic guitar. I touched it with my fingertips. Felt the texture of the strings. The warmth of the wood.
Cody came over.
"Do you like the guitar?" Cody asked.
"I like how it sounds. I like how it feels. But I never learned," I said.
"Want to hear something?" Cody asked.
"You play?" I asked.
"Since I was twelve. Self-taught. With tutorials. And patience," Cody said.
He picked up the guitar carefully. Sat down on a bench. Adjusted the strings. Took a deep breath.
And just before playing…
I looked at him.
Not as a neighbor.
Not as a classmate.
As someone who was beginning to fall in love.
Not for what he did.
For who he was.
For how he made me feel.
For how he looked at me.
For how, without saying it, he was teaching me that life could be something else.
And then…
Cody lifted his gaze.
Smiled.
And began to play.
---
Cody sat on the wooden bench as if he had known it forever.
The guitar rested on his left leg, his fingers moved with precision but without stiffness. He adjusted the strings with a gentle concentration, as if he were tuning more than an instrument. As if he were tuning the air itself.
I stood a meter away, hands clasped at my chest. The shop clerk, who had been flipping through a catalog behind the counter, looked up. A customer browsing sheet music stopped. The background murmur faded.
And then, Cody began to play.
The first notes were soft, almost timid. But they had intention. I recognized the melody instantly. *She Will Be Loved*. Maroon 5. A song I had heard a thousand times, but never felt like this.
Cody wasn't just playing. He was singing.
His voice was deep, yet sweet. He didn't imitate. He didn't force. He simply let the words flow as if they were part of him.
"Beauty queen of only eighteen…" Cody sang, with a voice that seemed to wrap around the store.
I… lost my breath.
Not because of the song. Because of him.
Because of how he looked at me while singing. Not directly. But with intention. As if every verse were a letter he didn't dare write.
The clerk leaned on the counter, arms crossed, with a smile that wasn't commercial. It was genuine. The customer with the sheet music sat down on a nearby stool, as if not wanting to interrupt the moment.
Cody kept playing.
"…She had some trouble with herself…" Cody sang, and I felt that line cut straight through me.
Because yes. I had trouble with myself. With my mother. With my fears. With my limits.
"I drove for miles and miles and ended up at your door. I've had you so many times but somehow I want more," Cody sang.
And he… knew it.
Not because I had told him.
"Rain falls on my corner every day, waiting for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile…"
Because he had listened without me speaking.
The song carried on. The notes grew more assured. The voice more firm. And I… more vulnerable.
I sat down on the floor without thinking. On the shop's rug. Cross-legged. Like a child listening to a story.
Cody looked at me for a second. Smiled. And kept singing.
"…And she will be loved…" Cody sang.
And I… felt loved.
Not like in books.
"Tap on my window, knock on my door, I want to make you feel beautiful. I know I tend to get so insecure. It doesn't matter anymore," Cody sang.
Like in life.
Like in that moment.
Like in that store.
"She will be loved, she will be loved, she will be loved, she will be loved," Cody sang.
Like in that song.
When he finished, the silence was absolute.
Then, the clerk applauded. The customer too. I… couldn't move.
"That was beautiful, kid," the clerk said.
"Thanks," Cody said, lowering the guitar carefully.
"Do you write music too?" the customer asked.
"Sometimes. But this song… has always felt perfect to me," Cody said.
I stood up. I walked closer. I didn't say anything.
I just looked at him.
And he… looked at me.
Not like before.
Like someone who knew something had changed.
And I… knew it too.
---