Todd loves to look at Neil, glances he can't help but steal through out the day that feel so vivid, each detail slipping nicely into his memory. He likes to look at Neil in class, while he rests his face on his palm or sits up straight and rapt with attention while Keating says something moving. The way his eyes will always glint with that inspired spark that says a lot more than anything else. He likes to look at Neil during dinner, when he perks up between bites and stifles giggles to avoid a scolding. The way his eyes dart around between who's talking, wide and perceptive, then the way he covers his grin with his napkin. He likes to look at Neil at their meetings, illuminated by moonlight and the occasional dim glow of his cigarette, standing center of their huddled circle and articulating a new poem or story with enough poise to make the group's chatter hush to a whisper. He likes to look at Neil when the two simply sit in content silence in their shared room, Neil's posture relaxed while he tucks himself into the corner by the window, the light catching on his features breathtakingly while he remains enraptured by what he's reading. And with remembering this, Todd feels he's tucked himself into the corners of his own life and— after Neil's gone— there's only empty and dull space where he used to quietly admire the boy who'd once brightened the room. He still stares into those spaces, unable to make himself anything but a spectator in his existence, a poet who's lost his muse and doesn't know if he'll ever find anything more— or want to.
Because what's left, truly?
