Plaid shirt. Khaki shorts. Headband held back the cover-up for an undiscovered brain, and the simplicity of his step smoothed the edges of Brewer Hall. His eyes were profound, and the absence of a smile reminded me of pain from long ago, perhaps in a land where its citizens never get to see the sunset; but his presence defied the laws of thought; and he was light in an opaque room: he was as unreachable as innocence, and as lovely as sin.

Walk. Shake hands. His jawline was tense, his hands were cold, and his eyes were hollowed and dark brown, with subtle yellow specks guarded by coy eyelashes made of silk. It began to rain inside the room as crystal raindrops suppressed the sparks emanating from his eyes. He kept a secret that no one could transpire, and stood up with an air of mystery as if Lennox Hall were an unresolved scene of crime.

He woke up curious and felt less old but not quite new. He never saw it coming, but it was rainy when I made him laugh, and he flew up to unrequited felicity amongst his teenage angst, and I felt him less new but not quite old. When he laughed he shyly looked down, so that all I could see were his crooked bottom teeth and lips smoother than his step. When he laughed his silky eyelashes battered, his sight focused on the ground, and his cold hands grasped the bottom of his denim backpack straps. When he laughed he was no longer eighteen, and his Oxfords scattered the leaves on the ground, and there was a spring in his step as he simpered, revealing the severity of a crossed line. And amidst the rain and the cold, in this single and ephemeral burst of emotion I discovered his peculiarity, and he discovered just how flimsy the walls between us were.

Green pants. Brown shoes paired with quirky socks. His cardigan brushes my arm and conducts electricity, but so does his voice. He lingers even when he’s not there, and his magnetism transcends in thoughts that echo inside me; he’ll exist beyond existence itself while I vicariously see life through him.

Ice. Teeth. Crack. He asked and listened as the crystal squares sang inside his mouth. He picked out the tomatoes in his sandwich, like I carefully picked him out amongst dozens. He’s confident in his embarrassment but I couldn’t see past his tall, blue walls.

Shadows growing. Hearts falling. He lives in New York Times, in photos under trees, and notebooks during bus rides. He appreciates my absurd questions and is the first one to ever ask them back. We walk and when we do it feels like we are standing still, and when we talk it feels like we are silent; we are present in absence, and we’re strangers who’ve known each other for years.

He lives on coffee, vodka, and gossip. He reads Sylvia Plath and translates Latin texts, but has an affinity for Gossip Girl. He likes to smile and purse his lips; he speaks in silences, and feels through space. He is the renaissance of a storm within whoever listens; he is a tempest, a paradox: he is rain during drought.

He writes and his long legs make him fly when he walks. He regrets Halloween, and wishes he’d tried harder in school. But what makes him special is what he provokes in others, and maybe even on himself: he exists beyond literature, politics, gossip, and quirks. I’m not really sure where he exists, or if he even does exist. All I know is that he can’t be from here or there; he doesn’t fit in a mold, in a country, or in any single group. He transcends, and when I’m with him, I do too.

He walked away and down Richmond Hall, suitcase in one hand and my heart in the other.