He is the perfect boy. Magical, straight out of a daydream, cute, with soft and brown curls, a dimple on his cheek, and a devilish smile. He seems innocent but knows what he means, he looks younger than his years, and always wears his jeans a bit too loose, showing the top of his...

It was a long day at work today.

Of course it was. You always find yourself torn between feeling your day job is burdensome, filled with never-ending piles of tedious work, and feeling that you are mechanically moving at a metronome's pace, a performer in a play, every tap of the keyboard registers as both monotonous and scripted. Your work feels so heavy you can't enjoy anything else, but so tedious you can't really focus on it. It is a contradiction, yet it is true.

You put your things away, cleans your workstation, sigh, and walk out into the busy street. Your free time has just started but the day is already ending. Great.

You now have to decide where to walk. You feel both the aching desire of experiencing your life, of doing something fun and meaningful --visiting your friends, going to your favorite restaurant, having a good time, anything not to throw the evening away. Also, you just want to get home, fall on the couch, and turn the black screen on for the hundredth time. You are dying to live your life, of experiencing new sensations, yet as soon as you are free your feet take you to the TV. Again, a contradiction, but also true.

On the way home, as you step into the underground, into the subway --a commute you know by heart at this point-- you lower your head and mindlessly stare at the floor. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him.

Maybe you have seen him before, maybe it is the first time, you aren't sure but as the doors of the subway close and the cart starts moving, you do your best not to stare at the young boy. You want the boy to look at you and smile, yet you try not to catch his attention. A contradiction, of course.

He isn't like the others, he is unique, special, that's why he caught your eye to begin with. The young boy doesn't have his eyes glued to his phone like everyone else from his generation, no stupid vaping or laughing like an idiot, he knows better than that. His face is calm, his expression relaxed, a faint smile is drawn on his lips. He is the kind of boy who'd offer his seat to an old lady. Of course he would do that, he is him.

But you are you and you don't dare to talk to him. What would you even say? "Hey there, gorgeous." No, that's stupid. And even if you had some clever one-liner, what excuse would you offer for suddenly approaching him on the subway? "Excuse me, but do you happen to know what time it is?" Yeah, it's possible but kind of a dead end, how would you even follow up on that conversation?

"Hey, that band's name you have on your t-shirt, that's my favorite band. Good taste, kid." It's a compliment, it sounds natural, and it works because he is wearing your favorite band's t-shirt. He is him.

And you are you. Oh you are only you, and he is him, so you stay quiet.

But what if you didn't? What if you moved closer to him and, while holding to the cart's pole with one hand and staring at your phone in the other, you said "cool shirt, kid. Most people have a shitty music taste. Nice."

And the boy would look at you and mutter "thanks," slightly surprised, slightly blushing.

But then the doors of the cart open and you are snapped back into reality. The boy leaves the cart. Yet, as he does, he drops his metrocard onto the floor. It is laying there, stuck to the ground. A second passes, then two. You blink, not realizing this is your chance. Move! Come on! Move damn it! You, yes you, fucking move! And right then you do what you never thought you would: you step out and pick up the metrocard and start running after the boy.

It's an underground maze, you try desperately to locate the boy in the ocean of people and by some miracle you spot him by the electric escalators, so you follow. It is a dense crowd, a stormy sea, but you are a heck of a swimmer. You can't let the kid get away.

As you reach the top and exit the subway, you see him walking a few feet away from you so you run after him, and tap him on his shoulder.

"Hey," you say, a bit out of breath.

"Hey?" The boy replies, confused and a bit defensive, you are a stranger after all.

But then you show him the metrocard. "You dropped this."

And the boy's expression changes, first to confusion, then realization, and finally gratitude. "Really?" He checks and sure enough, he doesn't have his. "Thanks, man."

"No problem," you say but suddenly realize you are out of things to say, the conversation has just started but it is already over. So you keep talking, whatever to keep the conversation going. "Just... I couldn't let someone with such a good taste in music lose his metrocard." You mentally kick yourself.

"What?" The boy tilts his head but then realizes you are talking about his shirt. "Oh, yeah, I love this band, I know it's a bit old-timey, most people these days don't even know it but I love it."

"Most people just listen to whatever the radio plays, no real taste," you find yourself saying. "But, do you really love that band? Like you say, it's a bit... old-timey, I don't know, maybe that's your dad's t-shirt or something."

"What? No way! It's mine!" And he smiles, oh God, his smile. "Or what, the new generation can't know legends?"

"Most don't."

"I'm not most."

He surely isn't.

"Anyway," and so you make your riskiest move yet and cut the conversation. This is the moment you are the most nervous about but it is a crucial one. If you care the one to cut the conversation, then you are the once perceived as the relaxed one, you take the desperate and creepy vibes off, and make yourself the chased one instead of the chaser, all in one move. However, it only works if the boy continues the conversation, and how do you guarantee that? Well, it is as easy as... "I'm going this way, so..."

"Oh, I was headed that way too," the boy says. Of course he also does, you saw him walking that way when he got out of the subway after all.

"Really? Okay." And just like that, you have bought yourself more time. "Since we are already walking that way..." you offer him your name and your hand for a good-old handshake.

He takes it. "I'm Jake."

Jake. Not a rare name, nothing particularly exotic but it is a strong name, a firm one, it makes you think of a tough guy riding a bike, of him running on a beach shirtless, of him taking off his sunglasses and melting you with a smile as he sees you. Jake, it fits him just perfectly.

As you two walk, you try to stand straighter, try to smile a bit more but not too much, try to look as if today hadn't been a horrible day at work. He, on the other hand, looks effortless. His hair is messy in a perfect kind of way, his gestures are natural, relaxed, his eyes are shining, and his smile fills the world with light, he walks as if life itself was lighter than air.

You ask Jake if he, besides liking music older than him, also likes movies older than him. He kinda nods and says The Godfather is his favorite. It isn't yours but you still compliment his taste. You mention you have just finished work for the day and are headed to your place for a relaxed evening. Jake mentions he was at school, also headed home now.

Looking at your watch, you notice it is almost 6:00. Was Jake really at school just now? The clock disagrees. But before you can inquire, as if reading your mind, Jake says he had soccer practice after school and that's why he is returning home so late. He is athletic! That explains why he is in such good shape.

"I've never been much into sports," you confess. "Watching them maybe but never played anything serious."

"Really?" Jake asks, squinting his eyes. "By the look of you I would've bet you practice something."

Was that a compliment? Was it? Had that perfect boy just complimented you?

You try not to let it go to your head but it is already too late. Actually, it is too late in more than one sense... in the corner of the street you see your place. The road is over.

What to do? You think of inviting the young boy to your place, of course! But would that be too risky? Would Jake accept to go to a stranger's place? Never! You are still a stranger to him, your only solution is not to be a stranger anymore but for that you need time, more time. Come on, think! Think! Think!

"Well, my place is there," you start. "But I was thinking about grabbing a bite over there," you point to a local burger place in the style of the 50s. "You can join me if you can, Jake, you must be famished after soccer practice." You were wrong, this is your riskiest move yet.

Jake stops for a second, doubtful. "A burger?"

"Well, it's not only the burgers, that place also has one of the best milkshakes in town, seriously, you have to try them." Is that true? You don't fucking know, but it sure as hell sounds cool and this is the sales pitch of your life. "Come on, I was gonna eat there anyway. I'll buy."

Jack stays quiet for a second. You try to hold on to every second, but they pass by so fast, you try to memorize the young boy's frame, his shape, his perfect sight, just in case this is the inevitable goodbye, but you also cannot bear the heavy weight of uncertainty behind every slow burning second, the suspense is devouring you. You want to hold on to every second but time is torturing you. Once more, a contradiction, or at least it is one until Jake says "okay," and with a nod, he follows you inside.

It is an ok place.

You have actually been here before a couple of times, always alone. Well, not today. You walk towards one of the booths next to the big wall-sized windows, and for those few seconds when you are walking in front, you don't see him, and part of you is afraid that he isn't actually behind you, that he isn't following you, that he actually never really entered to the restaurant with you.

You got your hopes up, you let your imagination run wild. Oh, what a cruel joke. You are already lamenting your losses, but as you get to the booth and actually turn around, Jake is still there, behind you, with light in his eyes.

"Order what you want," you offer as you both inspect the menu.

A bored-looking old waitress with too much makeup on, judges you as she opens her tiny notebook to take your order.

You go for a simple cheeseburger with fries and a coke --because, of course. Meanwhile, Jake passes on the burger and orders a milkshake. You mentally thank him for not ordering something expensive. However, he didn't order a meal. Maybe he isn't planning on staying for long, maybe he is thinking of leaving just now, maybe he...

"So you always take the red line after work?" Jake asks you. It isn't a particularly interesting question or... is he trying to get your daily commute so you two run into each other again? Or maybe he is a little bit bored and couldn't think of anything more interesting to ask you?

"I do," you reply but soon realize you aren't helping the chat flow. "Well, only when I finish on time. I must confess that when I finish late I tend to call an Uber."

"You say that as if it is a bad thing," Jake grins a bit.

"Well, it is for my wallet," you chuckle a bit. "But I am just so tired I just can't even fathom getting on the subway with all the corporate-robot people begging for the weekend to come."

"Wow, that's a dark way to look at it," Jake leans back on the booth. "But I get it, it happens to me at school too, sometimes when I'm walking in the hallways you just feel like no one wants to really be there and enough days of that you truly start asking yourself... Am I really doing what I want to be doing with my life?"

"Wow, and I'm the dark one," you let out.

Jake looks away, a bit embarrassed. You hope you didn't make him feel bad with what you just said but before you can even reply, the waitress is back with your order.

"A strawberry milkshake, some fries and a quarter pounder with cheese... oh, sorry, a Royale with Cheese as they call it in Paris," the lady said in the most monotone, boring as hell voice but that delivery is enough to make you raise an eyebrow and stare at Jake who is also staring at you.

"Was that a line from...?"

"Pulp Fiction," Jake completes your question. "It sure as hell is. Is this...? Oh my god, is this like an homage burger place to Pulp Fiction?" Jake stares at you.

You honestly aren't sure so you shrug.

"And we are sitting by the window, are we...?" Jake continues before looking at you once more and lowering his voice. "Are we those guys from the beginning of the movie?"

"What?" You tilt your head before also lowering your face and leaning forward. "Are you asking me to rob this place with you?"

And there it is, Jake laughs. He tries to cover his mouth with the back of his hand but try as may, he can't hide that cute smile of his, the dimple on his cheek. Suddenly, it is all working for you. You just fucking made him laugh!

The two of you start eating, you your cheeseburger, and he his milkshake, but you can't let a single second go to waste so you start fueling the conversation again.

"So, how was practice? You said you play soccer, right? What position?"

Jake took a long sip. "Eh, goalkeeper. Practice was alright. A bit... slow... not many goals."

"Oh, so you didn't get to practice much?" You take a bite out of your burger.

"Only a bit, I didn't score many goals," Jake replies. "Can I get one of your fries? They look real good!"

"Go ahead," you reply, slightly squinting your eyes. "Who's your favorite goalkeeper, Mbappé or Haaland?"

Jake took another fry. "Haaland, of course. Love the way he plays."

You look down at the table and place your half eaten burger back in its place before finally looking at Jake. "You don't play soccer, do you?"

Jake puts down his milkshake and stares out the window. It takes him a while to reply. "I... I thought you said you didn't know anything about the game,"

"I didn't say I know nothing, I said I don't play it, but my father and brother love it so I've learned a thing or two," you shrug. "Like that Haaland and Mbappé aren't goalkeepers."

There is a moment of silence, it is awkward and heavy and you are not sure what to feel in those long, uncomfortable seconds.

"Okay, I don't practice soccer," Jake finally confesses and looks away, his eyes are avoiding yours and you can tell he is a bit ashamed, a bit insecure. You don't frown upon him, on the contrary, you try to offer your warmth and an understanding nod. Finally, Jake sighs and turns towards you. "I was just walking around, I don't for how long, two or three hours? Then I noticed I was too far from home so I took the subway to get back. I just... I don't know. I just didn't want to be home for a bit and didn't know where else to go."

"It's okay," you reassure him. "Sometimes we all need a moment to clear our heads. If not being home for a few hours helps you, then who the hell am I to judge? All that matters is that it works for you. I hate it when I don't have a moment to... breath."

"Yeah," Jake makes a long face. "At least you get it. My parents don't."

"I'm sure they're doing the best they can."

"I know," Jake concedes. "I know they are but... I don't know, I don't want to get home just yet. That's... well, that's actually why I agreed to walk and eat with you. Sorry for that, I didn't want to interrupt your evening or anything."

"You aren't," you assure him. "I already told you, I was going to eat here anyway. But... well, if you want to, you can come to my place," you suggest. Oh god, oh for fucking god, did you actually just say that? Did you actually just roll the dice and make an offer? Did you just invite him to your place? You are out of breath, you can't believe it. "I mean, it's just like any other place but if you don't want to go home just yet... Well, at least it's better than just aimlessly wandering through the streets."

Jake takes a sip of his milkshake and looks at you, he looks straight into your eyes. His face is that of a lost puppy, cute and so full of childlike joy, he smiles, almost as if he is blushing. You can't believe your eyes. "Okay," he nods. You can't believe your ears!

So, he finishes his milkshake and you devour your burger, you had never eaten a burger so fast in your whole life. You call the waitress, pay the bill and, next to Jake, you leave the restaurant.

You are heading to your place.

Your place.

With Jake.

Oh fucking god.

As you two walk to your place, you can't believe it. This has never happened before, not to you, never so spontaneous, never with such a young boy.

Then you remember that time you brought a guy over, when it ended badly. It has happened to us all: maybe the guy backed down at the last minute, maybe the guy did his business so quickly he left you utterly dissatisfied, or maybe the guy turned out to be a total turn off.

You wonder if this time will be like one of those times. Will Jake back down? Will he leave you unsatisfied? Will he turn out to be a total turn off?

As you open the door and let the young boy in, he takes a look around and marvels at the sight of your four walls. You feel watched, scrutinized. Did you clean that morning before leaving? Is your place impressive enough for a boy? Are you overthinking this?

"Nice place," Jake finally says as he turns around.

"Thanks," you smile and close the door behind you but as soon as you do, the entire place drowns in a mute cacophony, oh there's that all old familiar silence... How heavy, how awkward and uncomfortable, when you both know what you came to do but don't know how to make it to the bedroom without it being weird, forced, and looking desperate. Will you two even make it to the bedroom or will he make up an excuse and leave?

"Want something to drink?" you offer, because of course that's the first thing that comes to your mind.

"No, I'm fine," Jake declines because declining is polite.

"You sure?" you insist because, for some god-damned reason, insisting is polite too. "I have water, soda, beer?"

"I'll take a soda," Jake replies, and you go to the fridge and hand him one. Good luck that you remembered to stock. But then again, silence. Fucking silence.

You did this same ritual with all those past encounters.

The guy who backed down at the last minute also took a soda, he talked a bit before suddenly going silent, staring at the floor and confessing he had chickened out. He apologized and, with his tail between his legs, left, leaving you wondering what you did wrong.

The guy who left you unsatisfied took a beer but didn't open it, instead he pulled you to the sofa and started making out with you. He didn't even take his shirt off, only his pants and you two went for it. He came so soon that two minutes later, he was already at the door, saying goodbye. You let yourself fall to your bed, face up, your balls blue.

Then there was the turn off. He took a glass of water and, out of all things, chose politics and social issues to talk about, and started saying stupid shit like: before, men paid the check on dates because they were the only ones who put bread on the table. Now, the more masculine-looking one should be the one who pays. You and him did it but after that you never wanted to see him again.

As Jake takes a sip of his soda, you wonder if the young boy will be like one of those lost cases. Will Jake turn into a good or a bad memory? Will Jake even become a memory at all? Maybe Jake will be the one who stays. Maybe Jake will eventually become... No, don't get ahead of yourself. You take a deep breath.

So, now you are standing like an idiot, reliving memories as the kid takes his sugary, bubbly water, staring at you, waiting for you to do something. Luckily, he is smarter than you, so he saves you.

"Are those your records?" Jake points to your modest but not so small collection of CDs on the bookshelf.

"Oh, yes!" You walk towards the bookshelf and let the tips of your fingers touch the plastic covers. "Now I mainly just use Spotify but before Spotify I was able to gather a few of these."

"No vinyls?" Jake asks.

"I have a few," you confess. "But CDs were more from my time. Plus, vinyl is expensive."

"But this one, look at this one," you say, picking one out. "And this one, and this one... All of these are from that band," you say, pointing at his shirt. "Told you: I'm a fan."

Jake stares at the CDs in his hands and opens them, almost surprised to actually find a disk inside. "I just follow them on Spotify. But this is next level, you also have his posters or what?"

"I used to, back in the day," you laugh it off. "But your t-shirt, that one is from when they did a tour for this album."

"Oh yeah," he takes it and immediately recognizes the colors, the title. "I bought it at a thrift shop, I couldn't believe someone was giving this away but I think it is original from that tour, look..."

Jake lifts his shirt a bit and shows you the letters inside the fabric, in the back. You lean forward and hold it for a second. The phrase official merchandise is printed on the inside. However, you then realize your hand is touching the back of his neck, his soft skin touches the palm of your hand. What's more, by showing you he has lifted his t-shirt enough to reveal his low hanging jeans and the waistband of his underwear. You are so mesmerized you don't realize he sees you noticing.

"So..." He says. You take a step back, waking from your daydream. He clears his throat. "You always keep your work clothes after arriving home?"

And you realize he is not too bad at this game, saying what you want without saying it. He wants it too. You realize. It makes you smile. You love that feeling, no. No, you don't love it, you adore it. To feel wanted, to feel seen, to feel desired. Isn't that what you always wanted? Isn't that what you've been searching for all those years since you were a stupid and lost teenager? For someone to notice you, to see you beyond the mask and the forced smile, for someone to care.

"Not usually, no, but..." You decide to play and tease too. "Are you sure your shirt is official merchandise? The print is small, I couldn't read it properly..."

"Oh," and then Jake does the unthinkable, the unimaginable, something you wanted but never prepared for. A contradiction but a very, very welcomed one: he takes off his shirt with an easy movement and hands it to you.

There is a shirtless boy in your living room. You take the shirt and pretend to read the small print, you try to ignore the only thing you want to be looking at: There is a shirtless boy in your living room! Out of the corner of your eye you check him out: his exposed torso is that of a young boy, lean and without a single hair on sight, not even on his armpits, his features are delicate, soft, round, and untouched, his collarbone is pronounced and his nipples the prettiest shade of pink, his neck is long and his hair is messy; the sun peeking through your window bathes him in a golden shade, making him all the more desirable.

"Looks like it's original," you say after a moment but you don't give it back.

"Told ya!" He replies and continues to look at your CDs collection, occasionally glancing at you.

You get the signal, of course you get it. He just made a move, it's your turn now! But you can't think of anything clever to say, something witty to respond. "It's original," you repeat while holding it up and turning to the wall. "Maybe I should hang it, it can be like one of those posters you mentioned," then you look at Jake over your shoulder. "Aren't you cold being like that?"

"No," he shakes his head. "It's actually pretty comfortable," he replies before pausing and giving you a devilish grin. "Maybe you should try it, it's your house after all."

"Well, I usually do get comfortable when I get home after work," you say as if that was something normal people would say. The entire conversation is a dance, an intricate tango so you both can get what you want as fast as you can. Nothing prohibits you from asking directly yet, despite wanting it now, you don't take the fastest route, instead you dance around it. A contradiction, once more.

You start undoing the tie around your neck as Jake slowly takes a CD out of its plastic prison and, walking to an old stereo, puts it in and presses play. Incredibly, he knows how a CD player works. Maybe he is playing naive, maybe it was all part of the dance, a flirtatious move in the intricate waltz you are performing.

You let your tie hang loosely around your neck as you start unbuttoning your white shirt. Jake wastes no time and slowly but surely walks towards you until he is standing a few inches away. He doesn't look for your eyes, he is staring at your chest as you slowly reveal more and more of it. You don't know how or when but suddenly you aren't unbuttoning your shirt, he is.

Around you two, the music dances, the band plays a live concert and it almost feels as if they were right there next to you, witnessing with anxious anticipation the magnificent scene blossoming in your living room.

When Jake reaches the last button, he takes both sides of your shirt and slides it down your shoulders, leaving your tie loosely hanging from your neck as the only thing between your bare chest and his. Without wasting a second, Jake places his palm over the left side of your chest, right on top of your heart. He can feel it beating, alive, running, fast and excited.

Your chest isn't like his, where he is thin you have a bit more mass than you wish you had, where he is hairless, you have an untamed grown-man jungle, some of it already turning gray, where he is lean, wrinkles are starting to cover your skin. You can't help but to feel self conscious about it but he doesn't stop admiring you, his hand innocently wandering through your collarbone, your pec, briefly stopping at your nipples, before caressing your hairy thorax.

As Jake's hands move away from your chest, his chin rises and his eyes look for yours. You are now in a staring contest, you are taken aback. Yet, it is not because of the pressure because there's none, there's no aggression, no challenge, it surprises you that he sees you.

Without looking away, Jake's hands go to his jeans, unbuttoning them before pushing them down to the ground. You don't see it, you want to but you don't because you don't dare to look away from his eyes. How does the young boy look in his underwear? What kind of underwear does he use? White briefs? Loose trunks? Tight boxer-briefs? Or maybe even something smaller, more revealing? You feel his jeans on the floor, your toes feel the denim, yet you don't look.

Then, his hands go not to his body once more but to yours. He is unbuttoning your pants! You tremble a bit, shaking, yet you don't stop him, you keep staring at his eyes and he stares at you, almost as if there was a chain on your vision. All your other senses explode! You feel the chilly air on your now bare legs, you hear your belt hit the floor between your feet, you can smell the sweat from your own body... is it from the heat of the subway or plain old nerves?

All the while, the music gets both louder and further away, with every note the volume increases and the band, at first right there in your living room, moves towards the hallway, to the front door, the street, the instruments screaming louder and louder as they are taken away.

"Jake," you interrupt the transe, the spell. But you have to ask something, you need to know if... "are you sure?"

The young boy doesn't reply, he simply smiles and takes a step back, raising his hands to the sides almost as if inviting you to finally, finally look at his almost-naked body. You do, oh, you fucking finally do and it is beautiful. With the sun setting beyond the shades, you look at him standing in nothing but a thin pair of white boxer-briefs, hugging him tightly. His legs are as bare as his chest, a bit pale but long and strong, those are the legs of a boy who plays tag, hide and seek, and practices soccer, and skateboarding every day.

"Jake?" You repeat. "Are you sure?"

He doesn't nod, his head doesn't shake. But his hands move to the waistband of his last piece of clothing. The band plates louder, the whole street outside echoes each instrument, each vocal chord, it's a deafening harmonious scream. The familiar tunes and rhythms sound so foreign, so new and broken, as Jake pushes his boxer-briefs to the ground.

You feel your dick grow into a painful erection inside your briefs.

Jake is naked. He is naked, he is showing you all the he there is. He is he, he is him, and you are there to see it all, admire it all. You are you, and you get to see all of him.

His dick is smaller than you thought, no, it isn't small, it's just the dick of a young boy, of course it is not as big as that of a grown-up! He is still growing, it will get bigger, larger. His balls are small too, round and tight against his body, a beautiful pair of pearls under the young boy's dick that has now turned into a boner. Jake is hard, you seeing him makes him hard. You can even see the pinkness of his tip.

How beautiful and forbidden, how lustful and surreal, how perfect and close it all seems. A young boy naked before you, in your living room.

"Jake," you repeat one final time. "Are you sure?"

He moves slowly, walks closer. Your dick gets harder and harder, like a stone, like a sword, as hard as the heart of those who promised to love you before but didn't. You can even feel the precum spilling from your tip, staining your briefs. Jake stops a few inches away from you and as his mouth opens the entire world falls silent. The band, the music, the neighbors, it all crumbles and shuts into a void. Nothing else exists, there is nothing else in the world besides the few inches between you and him.

"I..." his face makes a grin, a dimple forms on his left cheek. "I am sure. Of course I am sure. Why wouldn't I want to be like this with you, dummy?" Jake moves his right hand until it touches your left cheek, he caresses it as your father once did, yet his left hand takes a hold of your rock-hard erection. You gasp as he says: "I am sure. I love you, dummy."

And you kissed him. With those words spoken, with those words floating like a poem in the air, what else was left to do but to kiss him? Of course you kissed him. You held him tight against your own body, you lifted his young figure into the air and pressed your lips hard against his. You kissed him.

But maybe you didn't.

Did he even say those words or did you just hear them because that's what you wanted to hear?

Did he even come to your place or did you just fall asleep on the couch and create a fantasy in your mind?

Did he even lose his metrocard or did you take it out of his jeans just so you could have an excuse to talk to him?

Did he even have a shirt of your favorite band on?

Did you even dare to talk to him on the subway?

Of course you didn't. Because he is he and you are you, and you wanted to talk to him so fucking badly that... you didn't. You are you. So much desire turned to pressure then to fear, then you didn't. You wanted it so much... so you didn't. A contradiction. He is him. The contradiction. And you are only you.

A boy on the subway. You are still on the subway.

You stare at each other, you start to smile and after a while he whispers... "what?"

You want to say everything, to tell him everything. But you shake your head and say "nothing," instead. So you ride in silence, dying inside, rotting inside, fucking screaming inside; all the way until you get to your stop and get off the cart and out of the subway. There is no boy next to you, you are as you always have been: alone.

You wanted to say everything but said nothing instead. How many times have you said nothing, instead?

You are you and he is he.

You are you. And he is a boy on the subway.