Absent.

He sat right at the front, but would never once look up at the board all while knowing full well the snippy teacher would think him rude. He would only doodle inside his beat-up notebook he'd kept since seventh grade, and I would never know what exactly it was he was so intent on drawing.

It's a project, he would say.

He is not here today. He and I do not interact much, but I know he is beautiful. He is beautiful and I have loved him since I laid eyes on him. I have loved him and loved him and loved him. Nobody thinks much of him, but I do.

I don't know where he is. My stomach twists every moment I am reminded that he is not here with me.

I find it very funny that I most likely never cross his mind, while he is on mine every second of every day. It is not funny in the amusing sort of way, but rather in the heartbreaking sort of way where you despise your life and you always feel as though you need a good long cry, lying hopeless in your bed and staring up at the unforgiving ceiling.