How do you start describing someone?

How can you do anyone justice with words?

How do you know this works?

How is writing about him going to change anything?

She didn’t have an answer for the first two questions.

But she went to school to learn how to answer the last ones.

So, like usual, she gives me a totally boring, detailed answer.

But, like usual, I totally tune out.

This assignment’s due next week, she tells me as I leave.

Gathering my backpack, I walk out the door.

She’s used to people walking out.

So am I.

EH were his initials.

If you’ve ever read Dear Evan Hanson,

You might smile at the connection I’ve given you.

If not, go read the book, slacker.

He had eyes like navy storm clouds.

When he was happy, they danced.

When he wasn’t, they stormed.

And rained.

If he was concentrating,

His chin would crinkle up in the cutest way

And his eyebrows would lower in attention

To whatever he was doing.

I can’t do this.

This is too hard.

I’m almost crying.

This is stupid.

Keep trying, she says.

Why? Why does this matter?

It does, believe me.

I learned not to believe people a long time ago.

Whatever, I’ll try to keep going.

He was tall—really tall.

Like, his dad was the tallest in town.

So you can imagine his height.

Oh yeah, and his hair.

It was gravy-brown and really thick.

In sixth grade, for him, every day was a bad hair day.

And I wanted so badly to fix it.

The priceless smile that boy had—

It was like the rainbow after a storm.

A promise of something more to come,

But nothing ever did come.

He and I were close in grade school, sure.

But when we got older, it was like we drifted apart.

And my family decided to move.

Whenever I texted, he’d hardly respond.

He’d say he was busy.

Busy.

I was probably ten times busier than him.

I had just moved, not him.

Maybe he liked me then,

Because I don’t think he does now.

I think he wishes I would disappear off the face of the Earth.

Same here.

It just hurts to miss him.

It’s like pressure pushing down on me

Everywhere.

It’s the tears that threaten to spill.

It hurts because we have no pictures

No proof of existing together

But we did.

We really did, for a bit.

Some days are harder than others.

Because, mostly, I’ve been thinking about him.

The secret no one really knows, or if they do,

They roll their eyes and move on.

This is good, but you make him sound like he’s everything.

You may have been close, but you weren’t together.

And besides,

He was just a boy, she adds gently.

Sure, I say, because no one understands.

He was just a boy

But he was my boy

And I loved him.