This Time it’s Purple

This is an introspection. I've been reading old chat logs all night and I'm funnier than I think I am. As arrogant as that sounds.
Then I got to this part where I read this "(on relationships) It's like you see what you want, right? and it's right there within your grasp, but then you see how bad it makes them feel" and I was hit with inspiration.

. . . . . . . .

He watched with vague interest as she spoke. She stood in front of his classroom and told her life story. She was beautiful, but not in the way that he would be attracted to her. After all, he didn't date outside of his race and he was Italian, the apparent elite, and she was white or French or whatever.

She had a funny way of talking, but only because he lived in the south and she didn't have a southern accent. He didn't know why he expected everyone in the South to sound like that, but he did.

He watched her lips move and he found himself thinking about how pink they were and how he could see her teeth marks from where she chewed on her lower lip. He found that slightly more attractive than he probably should've.

"My name means friend," she told the group of people around him. It was one of the only things he really heard. It made him think about some pretty strange and random things.

She was remarkable, but not in the way he would notice. She was washed out of vibrancy and out of flamboyance. Her light was bright, but not in the way it was blinding. After all, he was intelligent, the apparent elite, and she was lesser than he or whatever.

Afterwards she took her seat, right in front of him and he made notice of her hair. Dark brown and straight down her back. It wasn't long and it wasn't short. She wore it up in a low pony tail held up by a scrunches. Scrunches were so out of date.

"Hey," he whispered so only she could hear him. She turned her head slightly.

"Yes?" She asked.

"Long story," he responded, heavy on the accent. He didn't know why he was trying so hard, she was white or French or whatever race she was that wasn't Italian.

"It usually is--I mean, it's only my life, you'd think it'd be shorter," she responded and he found himself attracted to her wit. He cracked a smile and hissed a laugh.

"Fantastic," he said to her, "but I have a question." His accent fell flat and she seemed a little less impressed with him. He didn't know why this bothered him she wasn't his type. She was big and she was white or French, but you get his point.

"Fire away," she said.

"Why are you so..." he paused for a moment, debating on his finishing word, there were so many to choose from both positive and negative; he decided on negative, "arrogant?" She raised her eyebrow at his finished statement and thought long and hard on her reply.

"Why are you so rude?" That was their first encounter. He refused to show her any kind of attraction. White girls weren't worth his time, they weren't...anything to him. She was as far away from his type as girls got.

But the question he hadn't asked still stood out to him in his head, above all else beside God's glory.

...

Why are you so beautiful?

and he wished he had the answer as he fell silent and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the back of her head and trying to pay attention to his teacher.