There’s nothing romantic about him, nothing sultry or sexy or whatever. He has no charisma and does everything awkwardly. He’s 6’4” and skeletally thin. He moves like he’s still not comfortable with the length of his body, despite being 21 years old and having been his current height for the past nine years or so. But I love the way he always paces around the room, I love the sound of his laugh, I love how he bobbles his head whenever he says something he thinks is clever. I love his scruffy facial hair, his perfectly straight teeth that are stained by a slight coffee addiction, his warm eyes that look beautiful with or without his glasses, the veins that pulse and bulge from his forearms. I love the timbre of his low voice, and the sing-song manner of his voice when he speaks. I love how effortlessly he can create beautiful music and beautiful drawings, how comfortable he is with a pen and paper in his hand. Every time he sits or stands too close to me, I try to keep some distance between us. I’m afraid of being too close to him. I’m afraid he’ll hear my heart pounding or see me shaking. But maybe, if I stopped pulling away anytime he got too close, just maybe I’d find that he’s shaking too, that his heart is pounding as well.