All the Little Things.

I kept the list of little things in a notebook Dr. Kalani gave me. I'm not even his patient, and he gave me a notebook, my name and the year engraved in the cover, even though I didn't need it because Leo was enough to make me happy. I have five pages so far, and I'll bet anything that at least fifty percent of those little things are either part of Leo or because of Leo. Example: LITTLE THING NUMBER THREE - Leo's bottom left dimple. LITTLE THING NUMBER FOUR - Leo's bottom right dimple. LITTLE THING NUMBER FIVE - Leo's dimple on his left cheek.



I'm in love with Leo Thornwood and I've only known him for, correction, two and a half weeks. I'm in love with Leo Thornwood and I've only known him for two and a half weeks. I'm in love with Leo Thornwood. and I've only known him for two and a half weeks.

It all makes sense. I'm in love with his left eye. I'm in love with his right eye. I'm in love with the dimples below his lips. I'm in love with the lone dimple in his left cheek. I'm in love with his smile. I'm in love with the bones that make up his toothy grin. I'm in love with his laugh. I'm in love with the way he acts around me. I'm in love with his optimism. I'm in love with the way I act around him. I'm in love with the way he makes me feel. I don't love him because, I love him despite. I love Leo despite his blindness. I love Leo despite his imperfections. I love Leo despite the fact that his couch ruined my attempted suicide. I love the way his smile isn't perfectly centered and is slightly pulled towards the left. I love the way Leo is just Leo.



Leo is asleep on the couch where I left him. I'm surprised I could even successfully sneak out, really. I grab my keys off the counter and creep out the door. Ever since Leo came into town, I haven't spent one day or night back at my apartment. I even moved my car to his parking garage. I'm practically living at Leo's and he's not even making me pay half the rent.

It's around nine, now, and taking the subway to Columbia is about fifteen minutes, while a drive is half an hour if there's traffic, so I go back to his loft and try to drop my keys off as quietly as I can. Success. Hopefully, Leo's professor doesn't have a class going on when I drop by. I walk out towards the elevator and go down to the lobby, walking out the revolving doors and towards the nearest subway station. I'm trying to think of every possible scenario that could happen when I talk to Leo's professor. Will he tell me who the glassblower is? Will he be some kind of psycho? By the time half of the possible scenarios run through my head, I've already arrived at my station. Going up the escalator and into the open sun, I'm a little scared of how today will go. I walk a couple of blocks when this building came into view, with beautiful, high-rising pillars and a dome at the top appearing. Columbia.



Once the desk clerk told me which building Leo's instructor was, I ran. Not gonna lie, I fucking ran. So when I knocked on Professor Benson's door and he opened it to some girl with her hands on her knees, breathing at the fucking speed of light like she doesn't care, he must have been pretty surprised.

"You don't look like one of my students," he said slowly as I took some time to catch my breath.

"I'm not, but my-" What exactly were Leo and I? "-friend is a student of yours,"

"And who might your friend be?" he asked, and when I finally look up, I'm caught with the surprise of my life.

I've always expected college professors, teachers, instructors--whatever--to be these middle aged people about to hit their mid-life crisis. I think of older people, maybe in their early sixties, who are so god damn smart and kind and wise. But Professor Benson is none of those things. Scratch that, maybe he's smart and kind and wise, but everything about the age? Forget it, because staring back at me is this young guy, and I'm pretty sure my jaw is on the floor.

"Hello?" he asks, waving a hand in front of my face and chuckling. I burn red.

"Oh! Uh, Leo Thornwood?" Once the 'o' in Leo walks right out of my mouth, Professor Benson goes somber.

"I'm so sorry," he says quietly. "Uh, why don't you come into my studio." I nod and walk in, taking a seat in a random wooden chair.

"What can I help you with?" he asks, but I'm sure he already knows my answer.

"I need you to tell me who the glass blower was," I don't ask him. I tell him. That's how important this is to me. Because politely asking him to find it in his heart to tell me who the glass blower is? That's not enough for me, because I need to know who it was.

"I can't release that information to people who aren't students or staff, I'm sorry," he says. I hate people like that, I really do. They tell you they're sorry, but they just want you to leave so they can continue on with their business.

"You don't understand," I say lowly. "I've known Leo for two and a half weeks, and I'm in love with him. I'm in love with a guy I met two and a half weeks ago! And don't tell me you're not in love with Leo, too. Not that way, but you know what I mean. Leo's got the most amazing personality. He's optimistic, charismatic, kind, smart, funny, a good student, don't tell me he's not one of your favourites, because I know he is. So when something like this happens to a guy like him? You can't tell me you're not upset, either. Because Leo's one of the few good people that don't deserve something like that. He's fucking blind, and he's still as optimistic as he was when he could see. So either you tell me who this guy is, or I'll find out some other way. And I can't say that other way will end well." I expect the professor to put up a fight or act stubborn, but all he does is sigh and pull out a piece of paper and a pen and scribble down a name.

"Please leave now, you've got what you wanted," he says tiredly, so I comply. And I want to cry and scream because of the name scrawled across the paper.