I woke up before my alarm again. I always do. Mom says it’s because my brain is “busy,” but I don’t think that’s the right word. Busy feels like noise. What I feel is more like… listening. Like something inside me is already awake before the rest of me catches up.

The sunlight was sneaking through my curtains, making little squares on my blanket. I sat up, stretched, and whispered, “Thank You for another day.” I don’t say it loud. Just enough for me and God to hear.

Today was the second‑to‑last day of school at Gregory Elementary. Everyone else was already acting like summer had started—everyone except me. I like school. I like questions. I like answers even more.

Mom brushed my short brown curls — which never stay down — and kissed my forehead. “Be kind today,” she said. She says that every morning. I think she knows I’m smart, but she wants me to be something better than smart. She wants me to be good.

I want that too.

When I walked into class, the room smelled like crayons and warm paper. Kids were loud, bouncing around like popcorn kernels. Mrs. Alvarez smiled at me the way she always does — like she’s glad I exist.

“Morning, Philip,” she said.

“Morning,” I answered.

JJ was already at his desk, spinning a pencil between his fingers. He grinned when he saw me. “Hey, Phil. You think we’ll get to finish our cardboard fort after school?”

“Definitely,” I said. “I figured out how to make the roof stronger.”

His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d think of something.”

We started with our daily warm‑up: a question on the board.

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

Kids wrote things like “more pizza,” or “no homework,” or “a giant water park.”

I wrote:

That people would understand each other before deciding what they think.

When I turned in my paper, Mrs. Alvarez read it and blinked a few times. “This is… thoughtful,” she said.

I shrugged. “It just makes sense.”

JJ leaned over and whispered, “You always write stuff like that. I don’t know how your brain works, but it’s cool.”

I smiled. JJ never made me feel weird for thinking the way I do.

At recess, the boys were playing kickball. They always ask me to play, but only because they want me to keep score. I don’t mind numbers, but I don’t like being used for them.

“Come on, Philip,” Marcus said. “We need someone who can count fast.”

“I’m reading,” I said, holding up my book.

“You always read,” he groaned.

JJ jogged over. “Leave him alone, man. He doesn’t wanna play.”

Marcus rolled his eyes and ran back to the field.

JJ plopped down next to me in the grass. “What’re you reading today?”

“Stories about inventors,” I said. “People who made things that changed the world.”

He nodded. “Maybe we’ll be in a book like that one day.”

“Maybe,” I said. “If we finish our fort.”

He laughed, and for a moment, I didn’t feel different at all.

Lunch is always the hardest part of the day.

I sat down with my tray — chicken nuggets, corn, and a roll — and bowed my head. I don’t pray long. Just a few seconds. Enough to say thank you.

Kids used to laugh at me for it. But by late May, most of them were used to it. They still whispered sometimes, but not as loudly as before.

Today, though, I heard a snicker from another table.

“Look, he’s doing it again,” someone whispered.

I kept my eyes closed, but my ears didn’t know how.

When I lifted my head, JJ was watching me — not in a weird way. Just… watching.

“You ever gonna stop doing that?” he asked quietly.

I froze. “Stop what?”

“Praying before lunch.” He shrugged. “I mean… next year. Third grade. You gonna keep doing it?”

I stared at my tray. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He poked at his corn. “Some kids say stuff. I just wondered if it bothers you.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I said. “Not really.”

But that wasn’t completely true. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it made my chest feel tight, like I was too much and not enough at the same time.

JJ nudged me with his elbow. “I like you how you are. Just saying.”

My chest warmed. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Besides, if you stop being you, who am I supposed to build rocket launchers with?”

I laughed. Loud. Loud enough that a few kids looked over.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care.

After lunch, we had art. I like art because no one can say your picture is wrong. Even if it looks like a potato with legs, someone will call it “creative.”

We were supposed to draw something that made us feel peaceful. Kids drew beaches, clouds, or their pets. I drew a small candle with a bright flame.

When I finished, I felt someone standing behind me. It was Emma, the quiet girl who sat near the window.

“That’s pretty,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Why a candle?”

“It reminds me that even small light can make a dark room brighter,” I said.

She nodded slowly. “My grandma says that too.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She is,” Emma said. “Like you.”

I blinked. No one had ever said that to me before. Not another kid, anyway.

JJ leaned over from his seat. “Told you. You’re like a tiny professor.”

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled too.

After the final bell, JJ and I walked home together like we always do. He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.

“Hey, Phil,” he said suddenly. “You know how I asked if you were gonna keep praying next year?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. I just… I don’t want people to be mean to you.”

I looked at him. Really looked.

“Do you think I should stop?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nah. I think you should do what feels right. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

I thought about that. About the laughter. About the candle. About Emma calling me wise. About Mom telling me to be kind. About JJ sticking up for me even when he didn’t have to.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I just… want people to understand me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

We walked a little farther in silence.

Then he grinned. “Race you to your house?”

I grinned back. “You’ll lose.”

We took off running, backpacks bouncing, legs pumping, laughter spilling out of us like we were made of summer.

When I got home, Mom asked, “How was your day?”

I thought about everything — the question on the board, the laughter at lunch, the candle in art class, Emma’s quiet voice, JJ’s honest one.

“It was good,” I said.

And I meant it.

Because today, I learned something important — something I think I’ll remember even when I’m older:

Light doesn’t have to be loud to be seen. It just has to stay lit.

And I think… mine will.

Especially with friends like JJ beside me.