Please read and comment! It's a really lame rant about... someone! Kekeke.
He’s quiet in a way that isn’t shy, just not talkative, and he’s got a smile that makes me nervous and achingly happy at the same time because it’s sharp and watching and like when the light shines through a stained glass window and hits your eyes with those bright, classic, precious stone colours. Just a bit taller than me with a square jaw, bright eyes and a mess of hair that he doesn’t seem to ever do anything to, he’s handsome in a way that doesn’t lend itself to being noticed, in a way that lends itself to sardonic grins and quizzical expressions, one word answers and sitting at the back of the room and not working in pairs when you’re meant to. He’s something just a little bit different.
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Stained glass windows used to have to be stuck together with pieces of lead because when they threw the molten glass across the pools of water to cool it, it was so thin that it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces of shining colour, something that must have been beautiful and painful to watch at the same time. They used to have to collect all of the broken pieces and bring them together with lines of lead, so all old stained glass windows have dark veins running through them, holding all the saints and the angels together. He’s a little like that, this boy, all shining pieces held together with clumsy, charming, hurting detachment. Sometimes I think that it’s like the sheets of glass, like if all those attributes hadn’t been scattered between those lines of lead then he’d be too much, too right. The truth is, though, that I don’t mind anyway. Like how the lines in a stained glass window don’t make it any less beautiful, his awkward responses and constant fidgeting and all those glitches and traits just end up making him that bit more more.
The thing, though, about stained glass windows is that they’re unattainable, distant and separate and only in churches and cathedrals because it took so much work and money to make them that they’re too special for normal buildings. They’re not something you live with, not something you get used to and grow warm towards. When I was a kid growing up in green, abandoned villages I used to stand on ledges and pews so that I could press my fingertips and nose to the musty fragments of ancient glass, breathing in the novel beauty of a world filtered through old glass and forever colours. “Novel” because a stained glass window is something separate to you, always. And he’s like that, clear and making the world look better when he’s around, but distant and dispassionate enough to make it useless to even hope for anything more than a conversation and one of those sharp, a little bit crooked, smiles.