She burned. She burned in the sunlight. The song said I was too young to burn. It lied. Because right now, as she was walking across the quad, with her books held tight against her chest, she burned to the core. And I felt it. Felt my chest heave and suddenly sink, accosted, as it were, by the sudden bundle of energy shoved into it. Energy I couldn't do anything with. Energy that was forced to sit anxious inside my chest, twitching and seizing at random moments; always when it saw her. She burned and she burned me too. Third degree burns on my arm when she brushed past me, second degree burns when she caught me staring, first degree burns when I thought of her. Burns no one could see. Because if they could, they'd be horrified at how raw I'd become, at how difficult it is for me to stay hard. I won't admit it. I won't admit that maybe being a bit softer, a bit less harsh will hurt less. Maybe the burns will have less bite to them, less sting.

But if I am even thinking that then I am admitting she's special. No else has made me feel this way. No one else has made me feel.