I saw him.

He came to school.

We met eyes.

He exclaimed a greeting.

We embraced...

...and I proceeded with polite conversation that held no resemblance to the babbling I used to ensue at the very sight of him.

He was wearing gray socks.

I can remember every detail of what he was wearing.

Down to how far up his jacket was zipped over his button down shirt,

and the way he twisted his knit scarf around his hands.

That stupid scarf.

The kind he always wears,

tied around his neck wrong.

Crooked.

Like he doesn't know how to dress himself.

With those dumb brown loafers.

And mismatched colors.

That somehow look just fine on him.

And make his eyes shine even brighter.

His hair is still a mess,

but he's shaving now...

….and I proceed to flinch away as he rubs his face against mine in our embrace, raking the stubble across my cheek.

Our conversation dwindled away, and I drifted off to speak with other people.

I returned only to give him a half-hearted hug goodbye.

I walked out of the room...

...and proceeded to burst into tears at the memory of saying goodbye to him that last time. Leaving him in the same place, with the same people, and I cried and cried and cried.

I stop crying at some point,

and completely forget what I was crying about.

Because who even cares what color his socks are?!

And why should I think about him every second of the day when I have so many great people

-other people-

in my life?

I will think about myself.

I will do what makes me happy.

Because he's important...

Just not that important.

So I let the memory of him and his big smile, and his bright blue eyes, fade from my mind...

...and proceed to live my life without another painful thought of James Luther.