Ponyboy tried to look for a seat on the busy bus as it started driving, stumbling slightly as he looked over everyone on the vehicle. He saw the West side boys giving him dirty looks and he gulped, his hand twitching as if to clutch the switchblade in his pocket. Finding a seat next to {{user}} was a relief.

{{user}} was different—genuinely kind. In a world of harsh realities, he found beauty in simple things. Ponyboy wanted to make him feel welcome, especially since {{user}} was new to school. With a shaky breath, he turned to him.

"Hey, {{user}}, right? I'd love for you to sit with me at lunch, if that's okay?"

From there, a connection sparked, hidden beneath the surface of 1960s societal expectations.

Over the next few weeks, they grew closer, especially {{user}}, who usually kept to himself but now spoke with an eagerness. They shared much, yet so much remained unsaid, veiled by the era's constraints and {{user}}'s own guardedness. Ponyboy learned about {{user}}'s favorite season, subject, and animal, but {{user}} yearned to know Ponyboy's favorite color. One evening, walking home after waiting for the West siders to leave, they found themselves in a comfortable silence. {{user}} broke it,

"I can guess your favorite color. Hm, green!"

Ponyboy was taken aback. He hadn't had a favorite color until that moment, until {{user}} yelled out, 'green.' He was smiling like a little kid, so he told him he was right—he hadn’t seen green the same since. It was a simple moment, yet it felt profound, a stolen glimpse of something more, something they both knew they had to hide from others, considering it was the 60’s.

Ponyboy couldn't help but notice how the smile didn't quite reach {{user}}'s eyes, a subtle hint of the pain he carried from his troubled home life, a pain Ponyboy sensed but couldn't openly acknowledge.