A mustard sweater, curly black hair, a crackling log fire.
He was onyx and Honey, hard and sweet. His black curls hung loose, sitting at home against the lightly tanned skin of his forehead. He wasn’t special. He was just another boy; rowdy and arrogant, entitled and a bit of a fool. But it was the dark warmth in his eyes that drew me to him. The way he would occasionally fall silent, analysing his surroundings with a precise intensity. Sometimes, it was like he would look right through me, yet still see everything. Picking me apart one tiny thread at a time.
I wasn’t in love with him, I never would be. He wasn’t the type of boy you’d ever be naive anough to fall in love with. No; he was an interest, a fasination, somewhat akin to a piece of artwork hanging on a wall for viewing. But he was abstract. A painting you might stare at for a very long time but never quite understand.
But he wasn’t someone you could ever dislike. There was no ‘love him or hate him’. there was never room for hate when he was around. In summer he was sunshine smiles and last minute road trips and in winter he was mustard sweaters and crackling log fires. He was exactly what you needed, exactly when you needed it, but it was never intentional. He was the universes way of saying ‘I have a plan, and it will find you’.
