“You walked in Monday with all your hair cut off and a different color and, fuck, I was sad.” My heart thuds. “Really?” “Mmmm. When I sat behind you in class, I used to touch it with my pencil, and you never even noticed. You smell like vanilla, do you know that?” I’m afraid to say anything, to stop him. “Every day I’d get a little braver and barely touch my pencil to your shoulder, your arm. I was afraid to want you, then hurt you—”
