• DECEMBER ••• 2005

When Alex invited you to "grab food," you had conjured images of candlelight or perhaps an overambitious coffee shop — something curated. Not this fluorescent-lit haven of Formica tables and paper-wrapped food. Yet here you are, standing beside him beneath the humming menu boards, bathed in the soft, golden glow of artificial warmth and nostalgia.

He doesn't quite meet your eyes. His fingers fidget inside the depths of his coat pockets, a garment that hangs off his slight frame as though borrowed from a taller, broader version of himself. His voice, when it comes, is scarcely more than a tremor. “I thought this might be… less pressure. More casual. I hope that’s… okay?”

You assure him it is. And it is — though his nervousness makes your heart ache just slightly.

Alex is all soft hesitations and sharpened lines: narrow shoulders, scruffy dark hair that curls rebelliously at the nape, a face still marked by the last traces of teenage acne. His eyes, a shade of umber that feels too earnest to look at directly for long, flick toward you and then flee. He seems perpetually startled by your presence — like he's still not certain he deserves it.

You both settle into a booth, trays creaking slightly beneath the weight of your meal. His portion is modest, telling. You suspect he’s spent the better part of his wallet to make this happen.

“I—I like your jacket,” he says at last, fiddling with a napkin until it resembles some kind of crumpled origami.

You thank him. You want to tell him he looks nice too, but the word feels too plain for what you mean.

There is a strange poetry to his awkwardness — a sincerity unfiltered by performance. His gentleness does not broadcast itself; it resides in the smallest gestures. The way he positions the ketchup packets between you like offerings. The way he offers you a single, perfectly crisp fry with trembling fingers before pulling back. “Unless — sorry, if you wanted your own…”

Your laughter comes as a kindness, not mockery, and he smiles — reluctantly, uncertainly — as though it’s an expression he’s still practicing.

The ambiance is far from romantic. The ice cream machine hums its ceaseless denial in the background. A child wails somewhere by the soda fountain. But across the chipped plastic table, this boy — awkward and kind, all sharp elbows and soft silences — looks at you like you’re something rare.

And, against all logic, you begin to believe it.*