colors.

I

I

His head is filled with too much noise.

The sounds blend with the colors in his mind creating a cacophony of noise and color; blinding and brilliant. Thoughts are wrought across his consciousness in quick succession as his hands fly across the pages of the leather bound sketchbook and his world comes to life around him. The people pass, hurrying here and there, but he stays stationary on the hard, plastic, and blue benches that litter the train station; his hands moving where his body does not.

The train station is an odd place. It is a limbo between here and there. He is not at school where he sits alone and tries to hide from the furtive glances and questioning looks. He is also not at home, where he somehow feels like a piece that doesn't exactly fit; living a lie in the only world he thought he belonged. So here he sits; lost in his head in a place that allows him comfort in unknowing.

If he wanted to go the gallery downtown, he could hop onto the next train and be climbing up the steps to the Manchester Art Gallery within the hour. Or if he wanted to go to his favorite shop, he would just have to cross the line and would be on his way to the countryside shops he so admires. It is amazing how much escape you can gain from just one student train pass; he always marvels in its uses.

For now he wishes not to leave, but to just sit on the hard plastic bench and frantically scribble away at the rough paper of his sketchbook. So in the busy station he stays; tuning out the sounds of the train as his mind wanders and his music plays. The white earbuds are tucked into his ears and emitting soft music of concentration and are almost lost under the rough, woollen scarf that tickles his chin and neck.

For a fifth-year high school student he looks well beyond his age by the thick and professional woollen, black jacket that adds definition to his shoulders and well kept tan chinos that ride just above his ankles -- allowing his patterned socks to peek out above the heel of his boatshoes. He's an anomaly of his age with maturity beyond his years in certain areas leaving him a deformed counterpart in his peer group's eyes.

But he does not let that break him.

He knows who he is and where he wishes to be. He'd rather be on the edges of their vision rather than the dead center because he knows he does not belong with them. He has no interest in the drinking and the games. All he desires is the solidarity of silence and the quiet strokes of his pencil. He would rather be lost in the pages of his sketchbook or in the canvas of a masterpiece than lost in the bottle.

His hands falter as they move across the page. Someone is watching him and he can feel it. The prickling sensation that spreads across his spine as someone's gaze is locked onto his hunched form is what causes his movements to still. His eyes slip upwards in an attempt to discern who is so interested in him. He hopes it's not one of the annoying boys from his school who like to fill the bathroom's with their smoke.

The train is emitting passengers and gaining new ones and the cacophony of people makes it hard for him to pinpoint who exactly is watching him so intently. It is as the speakers overhead are announcing last call when he meets electric blue eyes. A man dressed impeccably stands in the train car directly in front of him and he is watching the high school boy with a curious sort of gaze. The man smiles a gentle smile when he realizes he has been caught and quickly averts his gaze to the woman who shuffles to stand beside him in the quickly filling train.

Once the train is long gone and only the wind stream it creates is left, he realizes how fast his heart is beating and how his fingers itch to create something featuring the soft and delicately chiselled features of the blue eyed man. It is then he realizes he is so incredibly screwed.