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Once I met this boy who dropped out of school because he loathed it. But he was so smart, well read, and just so mature he quickly became my world. He really was a genius. I thought he was the epitome of everything I wanted to be and so much more. I was so in love with him. I waited everyday to see him, to listen to him, to be with him. His crooked smile and his musky cigarette smell greeted me everyday and I yearned to be by his side. I wanted so much to learn from him, to somehow transform and to become one with he who I thought so ideal. We sat in the cold and exchanged words that haunted me at home and sang me serenely to sleep. He never ceased to astonish me with stories that drove me to the brink of insanity; I was restless. He had this nonchalant demeanor that would leave me shaking with longing. I had never found someone so perfect as he. Only he would understand me, only he would read me, only he would get to see me au naturel.

I saw him smoking his cigarette from the corner of my eye and his quick, cool manner quickly seized my attention. He carried himself towards me, and with a pregnant pause we exchanged a hundred words. I knew right away that I was headed towards trouble, but I was transfixed. Nothing could pull me away from my fixed gaze into his world.

Through all his perfection he lacked a certain quality that bothered me endlessly. After a few too many cigarettes and sad stories his cynicism became old after a while. I wasn’t so charmed by his words or his books anymore. But he left as quick as he came, and sometimes I sit and remember how much I enjoyed talking with someone who I could wholly understand and relate to. Then I realize that I probably won’t find anybody like him again.