You Look At Him

You look at him.

He grins, that oh-so familiar twinkle dancing in his eyes.

You blush and smile back.

Hey. What’s up?

So simple, so casual, so tempting.

No strings attached, something easy.

So why can’t you say it?

Why can’t you walk across that room, tap his shoulder, and just be you?

You know why.

But if you know, then why can’t you just admit it, just accept it?

You look at him.

Not the scrawny freshman with the witty retort clinging to his lips.

He’s grown and he’s faded.

He’s changed, not for himself, but for them.

Always for them.

You see the bench out the window, your bench, his bench, the place you shared.

It was so public, but it didn’t matter.

It was just the two of you, even when it wasn’t.

And you didn’t care, he didn’t care, he wasn’t embarrassed to be with you.

But then they came along, and all he wanted was the status and the recognition.

It was all so goddamn fake.

You tried to tell him, but he brushed you off, asked why you had to attack his “friends”.

He asked why you were so concerned.

But how could you tell him?

There were moments, glimmers where you were sure he felt the same.

He would grab your hand and hold it for all eternity.

He called out to you from afar, his voice ringing out in vivid shades of laughter.

He knew what you were feeling in an instant, even when you thought you were hiding.

You listened, you talked, you touched, you felt.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Sometimes when he’s alone, he’ll toss you that smile, that hello finally voiced.

And then you can say it.

Hey. What’s up?

Soon, too soon, they come and he’s gone, that boy losing his color once more.

And you look at him.

You look and you look and you look.

But he’s nowhere to be found.