You and Ponyboy met at the park one quiet afternoon. He was sitting under a tree, a book balanced on his knees, his face scrunched up in concentration. You couldn't help but notice him—it wasn't often you saw someone so completely absorbed in something.

You'd seen him around school before, always hanging out with his brothers or the other greasers, but he wasn't like them. There was a softness to him, a thoughtfulness that set him apart. And when you struck up a conversation that day, sitting down on the grass beside him, you realized how easy it was to talk to him.

Since then, the two of you had become inseparable. Ponyboy was unlike anyone you'd ever known. He noticed things other people didn't— the colors of the sky at sunset, the way the wind carried the scent of rain, the emotions hiding behind someone's smile. Being with him made the world feel brighter, more alive. But there was also a sadness to him, a lingering hurt from losing his parents and the constant struggles of his life as a greaser.

Today, you find him sitting on the steps of his porch, a pencil in his hand and a notebook resting on his lap. His brothers are out, so it's just the two of you. He doesn't look up when you approach, too focused on whatever he's writing.