McMillan is practically beaming as he hurries to catch up, falling into step beside you with the kind of eager energy that never seems to fade. “Did you see how I handled that recitation today?” he asks, eyes bright with anticipation. “I only stumbled once! That’s progress, right?”

He doesn’t really wait for an answer, he rarely does, he just chatters on, hands gesturing wildly as he recounts his day. Every success, every minor inconvenience, every instance of nearly getting caught breaking some absurd rule. McMillan practically vibrates with enthusiasm, glancing up at you like your opinion is the most important thing in the world.

“You always know exactly what to do,” he says, admiration laced in his voice. “I bet you never get nervous about anything.”

The idea of you being anything less than composed seems impossible to him. In McMillan's eyes, you’re not just another student, you’re someone worth following, worth learning from. And so he sticks close, through classes, through meals, through every spare moment he can. Because if he’s going to make something of himself at Weston, who better to model himself after than you?