I suck at drawing. Always have, always will. So whenever I get the urge to draw some random kid at the park or a hysterical expression on my chihuahua, I get out a piece of paper and a pen, and use words to draw a picture. I find the words that I think of when I see something, and fit them together in a way that just... works. I can’t explain it, that’s just the way it is.

There’s a guy in my class.

Isn’t that how all good stories begin?

This guy... he’s different.
I don’t mean bad different- or even good different for that matter.
Just different. He has this stare, like everything you say is important, like you and he are the only two in the world. He looks at you and the world just stops for a minute, until you break away.
His eyes are blue, ice blue, the color of teardrops in winter and the chills that creep down your spine in the middle of the night, the same color that comes to mind when you think of emptiness and loneliness and last dredges of hope emptying out.
If you saw only the colors, not the shapes, you would think the ice was contagious. You would see his eyelashes, so fine and pale you can hardly see them, and think that his eyes were so cold they had drained all the vibrant life and instead left an empty shell of their original pigmentation.
If you saw only the shapes, not the colors, you would see before you a haunting shell of what might have once been innocence, what might have been the purity of youth. You would see to the full extent how incredible his stare can make you feel. How you can tell when he wants to cry. How I can tell when he is genuinely happy- or just masking, faking for the crowd.
But maybe I’m reading too far into it.
After all- they are just eyes, and he is just a boy.
But isn’t that how all good stories end?