I had one thought running through my mind. He is probably the cutest boy I'd ever seen in my life.

That, of course, was followed up by another, more logical thought. You can't even see his face.

The boy sitting on the park bench had everything a cute guy needed, at least from the back. Great posture, nice hair, and a very quality denim jacket. Granted, I could've rounded the bench and found an older gentleman - or, honestly, even a woman - but I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I needed to go see him. At least just see his face. I could be written off as a creeper, I didn't care. Just to get my brain back under control.

Man, had I always been this creepy?

I gritted my teeth together and started forward, not allowing myself to stop until I came to a halt just on the edge of the park bench my legs almost bumping into his denim-clad knees. I had been right about that, at least. He was a he. With the curve of his cheekbone catching the reflecting ray of sunshine. His hair was a color that was torn between blonde and red, a bottled mixture that made him look more tan than pale. His hands were busy at work with the pad of paper in front of him, a pencil tearing across the page, but he slowed his movements as I stood there, as if noticing me.

I cleared my throat, hoping to grab his attention. It didn't work. Or maybe I did grab his attention, for his fingers seemed to stiffen, but he still didn't look up. "C-Cool drawing," I feebly got out, hating myself for unconsciously stuttering, gritting my teeth to focus on my speech. "I'm no good at drawing, but I could write a story to go with that perfectly."

Great, Jonas, now you sound like an absolute creeper. Walk away. Dude. Why aren't you moving?

The guy had drawn a scene of two people embracing, but it didn't look romantic. If anything, it looked tragic. The heavy lines that surrounded both of the figures spoke of a deep emotion, and the drooping faces of the characters alluded to some sort of heavy feeling. The drawing could've looked chaotic, if it weren't so clear that the artist was in pain.

He didn't look up at me when he spoke, more of a statement than a question, his voice heavily disinterested. "Really?"

I took his response as an invitation to step closer, to peer at the angle of the drawing in the way he was crafting it. A piece of my hair fell over my vision as I craned my neck. "A lot of people would look at this and think of a pair of star-crossed lovers, but this is the telling of an internal conflict. The two figures are identical in structure-" I traced the pad of my thumb across one of their drooping jaws, careful not to smudge his lines. "Hinting at some sort of internal struggle with the character that's duplicating as a separate being entirely. A battle with himself." I glanced up from the paper, expecting to see him staring down at his drawing, but finding his eyes on mine instead. It gave me a jolt, a sharp stab of pressure and fire zipping through my veins. His eyes seemed to be a thousand colors at once, but finally my brain settled on recognizing them as a grayish blue. But it was more about the fact that they held so much emotion that it almost felt suffocating. Personal. Like I needed to look away. But I couldn't, not even if I wanted to. "Am I right?"

The boy didn't respond, but blinked his lashes every other second, looking at me with a strange expression. Expectant expression, perhaps, as if he were waiting for me to go on. Instead I stuck my hand out, curling my toes against my sandal. "My name's Jonas."

Hesitantly, as if sudden movements weren't in his mannerism library, he slipped his hand into mine. "Beckiheim."

I blinked in surprise. Usually me commenting my name came with a canned response, "Isn't that a boy's name?" But he didn't even seem to notice. "Anyone ever call you Beck?"

He seemed to think for a moment, eyes never leaving mine. "Just you."

"Oh."

"But I like it," he added quickly, but his expression seemed to belie his words. There was a crease between his reddish eyebrows as he peered up at me, as if he were staring into the sun. "And you were right with the drawing, Jonas. Spot-on, actually."

My lips twitched involuntarily. "A good writer has to be able to read her material well."

Beck collected his bag from the seat of the bench and scooted down. "You may sit if you want, Jonas. I have a few other drawings. Perhaps we can test whether or not you're a good writer?"

Yeah, now my lips spread into a giant grin, one wide enough to light up the entire world. Challenge accepted. Take that, brain. "Show me what you've got, Beck."