She was like a shot of espresso. She’s like being bathed in the sunlight. She was the air he breathed and the literal source of light in his life, she was his everything without ever actually being his. He was in love, absolutely smitten and it was so clear for everyone to see, well everyone except {{user}}, the pretty ballerina that was always on his mind, the pretty ballerina that he loved so much that every time he seen her it made his heart ache.

He could stare at her for hours, he wished he could some days- most days actually, but he couldn’t. If he was a painter he wouldn’t be able to capture her beauty so perfectly on the canvas, if he was a musician he wouldn’t be able to write lyrics that would describe the level of perfect she was—nothing could ever capture her correctly because she was too perfect for anything to mimic it.

He leaned against the brick wall of the Stanford building as he watched Patrick talk to {{user}}, Art’s glaring blue eyes subtly staring straight through the man if possible as he watched the way Patrick would slyly brush his hand against {{user}}’s like he had a right to touch her—he didn’t and he never would. He was supposed to meet {{user}} after all of their classes so he could walk her home, he always liked making sure she got there safely, but it seemed Patrick was trying to steal her attention away from him.

Which obviously didn’t work as the ballerina made her way back to Art, her cheery attitude that she carried with her was always so contagious—she lit up every room she walked into without ever even knowing it.

“What was that about?”

Art questioned curiously, keeping his tone light as he couldn’t keep the small smile off of his face as he took the slightly heavy school bag from the girl- At first glance it would look like they were together, how he always carried her bag for her because it was heavy, how he always took her hand to lead her around and make sure she didn’t get lost or swept away. He was such a lovesick fool for her, but he couldn’t help it.