emerald.

Ryan is a weird kid. Weird being a five-letter synonym for all the things he could also be depicted as (strange and peculiar and abnormal and unusual and bizarre) but barely what he actually is, or what I believe he is, underneath all the thoughts and emotions he seems to be riddled with. (He's really indescribable.)

And I, Brendon, like to watch this weird kid.

I would write a list of each and every puzzling thing I observe Ryan do, but sometimes all I can do is watch and sit and never want to blink, as if I'm frozen in place by the delicacy that is George Ryan Ross. (Besides, the words and phrases and sentences to sum up Ryan are too powerful to be confined by paper or graphite or ink or the dance of my hand.)

So, okay, I will admit the fact that I'm maybe-sort-of-totally stalking Ryan, but just admiring from a far makes my mind race and my pulse skate and it's not like Ryan's noticed, or if he has noticed, he hasn't confronted me at all. (But the more I inspect Ryan, the more I somehow believe in the terrifying latter, because Ryan's skeptic and calculating eyes would make it kind hard to miss a smitten boy, crouching by a flower garden and gazing at him through the leaves of a bush.)