Their Want, His Silence

In the quietest corner of the old school library, where the light filters in pale and dust dances like ghosts, he sits. Always by the window-still, delicate, unreadable. A boy cloaked in silence, spine-deep in books and dreams too heavy for words.

His name is whispered more than spoken, passed from mouth to mouth like a prayer or a curse. Skin pale as untouched snow, smooth and unblemished, as though carved from ivory. His raven-dark hair falls with indifferent grace across his hollow cheeks, and his lips-crimson, soft, sinful-rarely move unless it's to turn a page. Long lashes cast shadows over deep Atlantic eyes, impossible eyes-eyes that don't see you, and yet you burn when they pass by.

They watch him. All of them.

Boys who do not understand the hunger in their chests when he brushes past. Boys who sit behind him in class just to study the nape of his neck. Boys who speak too loudly when he's near, just to see if he'll glance their way. Boys who dream of pressing their hands against his cold skin, of being noticed by the quiet beauty in black.

He doesn't speak unless spoken to. He doesn't flirt, doesn't laugh. He simply exists-distant and breathtaking, a cathedral of silence dressed in human form.

And still, eyes wander.

Every day, a different boy. A different pair of wandering, wondering, wanting eyes.

Because he is not just pretty. He is poetry waiting to be ruined.

And one day, someone might try.