When you see him for the first time, you are first struck by his body. It’s perfect, a perfect body, all straight, yet lanky, posture, wave of dirty blond, heartbreakingly blue eyes. You’re struck by the lanquidity of the hat resting backwards on the head of blond, struck by the gleaming worry hiding in the blue eyes, struck by the aching jawline and the strained, fast movements. You’re struck by the agreeable smile, the manipulative strain of thought, the pervasive approval. Struck by the walk like a stallion, the easy lift of one backpack strap over the left shoulder blade, the quiet wait outside the classroom and the unsuppressed grin when you join his side. He makes you feel like only the two of you exist in the world. He makes you feel completely alone in the world. He makes you feel like a fool. He makes you die for his attention. He makes you his friend and eventually more than his friend and eventually less.

I think back to the one time I’ve been in love, which felt like being drunk all the time, but on the person, not on alcohol. I was 15 and less familiar with pain. This didn’t feel like that. I don’t really know what it felt like, because you and I are both experts at numbing ourselves.