The neon shine of the Budlight sign deepened your pale, blue eyes into infinite indigo and the faint edge of a smile was ticking at your jaw. “You’re staring,” you stated. And maybe I was. Maybe I was caught up in how you hold your backbone straight no matter the crowded space or how you manage to make me feel small without meaning to. Small as in delicate, small as in precious, and not small as in meaningless. Maybe I was a tiny bit taken by the way your voice rumbles in your throat like sugary thunder; the kind of voice girls fall for without thinking it through. The collar of your jacket brushed your neck in a way I wished for a split second I could mimick with my fingertips. You glanced up at the stars and suddenly the hesitant smile exploded into an almost childlike laugh.