As I sat in English class I kept trying to refrain myself from looking at him. Him. The quiet boy of average height, dark hair and the kindest eyes I had ever seen. He was the only boy who raised his hand in class and had the most thought-out comments and questions for Mrs. Zackrison. He was smart. He is smart, and despite my class' anxiousness for the bell to ring, my mind was too taken away to be anxious with them.
I always wished English class could have been a little longer. It was the only class I could keep glancing over at him without anyone noticing. I just wanted to hear him speak. I needed to hear what he had to say. I needed to know what he was thinking whenever his eyes wandered off.
What was it about this boy that was so different than anyone else? At times he made me feel so small, perhaps it was because of how high I held him. His presence was silent but demanding. And every time he spoke, I didn't just hear words. I heard meaning. A story that drew me in like a moth drawn to a flame.
I remember telling myself, "Some people are just born to be great," and I wondered if he knew that he was one of them. Not because of how much he had or even how good of a person he was, but because there was a girl who sat every day in class and chose to believe in someone she didn't even know.
I decided something that day. Something that would change my life.