If you looked at him, you would notice the quiet manner he held himself in, the way his expression was a mix of timidity and accepted defeat. When there was a hush amongst us all, whenever he had a moment to his thoughts, the look that withstood in his eyes suggested a small taste of the weight of the world that he held on his shoulders. Which is why they were always slouched. Lax, one would say, but to someone who knew, they weren’t languid, as they appeared, they were being pressed down, by the unseen gravity of his mind and all the things that wandered in it.
If he looked at you, you might be taken by the way his stare placed a mysterious feeling of importance upon you; like if you happened to gauge his attention and hold a conversation with him, you might be somewhat surprised, bewildered, and flattered with the way he seemed to watch every detail in your face, take in the entire sight of you, observe you in the way a teacher would his student, a father would stare adoringly at his child, a scientist would at his very creation, and you would be unable to suppress the blush on your cheeks or the warmth rising in your stomach while you spoke to him.
It was as if he took in first your eyes and the energetic way they danced around at everything, then your eyebrows as they rose and fell in excitement, and your lips as they formed every word. Then finally your clothes and your hand movements, as if he were installing everything about you into his infinite database of memories of people, storing halves of yourself into separate categories, eyes, hands, lips; and you would believe he cherished them all, those many people he had observed in conversation, those bits and pieces he stored, never whole, always bits, and those tiny bits were all given equal dedicated attention.
You instantly felt special in his presence, and this would cause your heart to beat fast, because never had anyone made you feel this way. It was like so much lied in his eyes, only his eyes, the source of his potency. There were times, whimsical times, when you could glance at them and see the light shining behind his green iris shaded with blue and catch the image of the boy that resided there, suffused in his unrestrained grin. And there were times when you would disturb him from a spell of quiet and one glance into his eyes would drive a spear into your heart with the pitiful sadness etched into them, his look resembling a child that has been sent to his room but doesn’t have the slightest idea why.
His hands were frequently inside his pockets. He liked to lean against walls and look to the side of himself, giving the impression that he was waiting for something to come and pick him up and drive him away. His speech was whispery and suggestive, always a decibel below actually talking aloud, like every word he spoke was a secret and meant for your ears only. He was always slouched, so people assumed him approachable, because of the way he carried himself, as if his own importance did not exist in the slightest. As if he held no importance of himself, didn’t deem himself or his body worthy of holding upright. He was tall, but not condescending, more like an oak tree that you would sit under and unknowingly fall asleep there. He was strong, but held himself as weak, which gave you a hint at how he used his strength not for his own vanity, but yet for the protection of others, of those important to him.
And you couldn’t help but secretly yearn to be one of those people, those people who are important to him, who he cares deeply for. Because you had the feeling that he fussed over those he cared for, and at the sight of him, in his company, you wished to be fussed over by him. Even though you wouldn’t peg him as the type from afar, he gave off the calming visage of someone who held women in high regard. In the back of your mind you would wonder if you would be able to brand him with the title of Casanova, unsure, because you regard the label with promiscuity and you were hard-pressed to not believe such a thing of him; he was too good, too perfect. He would unconsciously dote upon any girl that came across him, but he never approached, which would confuse you because he was undeniably the type to approach.
