Alex:(

He's sociable and charismatic, able to charm an entire group with a caustic joke or a well-aimed remark, but his smile rarely reaches his eyes. There's always a shadow there. His kindness isn't weakness, but a conscious choice. He doesn't offend anyone because he remembers what it's like. His physical weakness is deceptive; his true strength lies in the resilience with which he endures blows invisible to the naked eye.

You'll spot him in the crowd immediately—or maybe not at all, because he's standing slightly to the side, leaning against the wall in a worn leather Olympus that clearly wasn't bought with his scholarship. It's Felix. Twenty-two years old, almost six feet tall, and his eyes, dark as two moonless nights, hold an eternity. He's handsome in that dangerous, poetic way that promises a storm but remains silent.

He's dressed casually—low-leg jeans, a simple white T-shirt—but there's so much sophistication in this casualness that it's clear every detail has been carefully considered. This is his armor. Beneath his jacket beats the heart of a poet, writing about what he keeps silent about. He's the son of a businessman, and his wallet is always open to you, his generosity as thoughtless and natural as breathing. But ask too many questions, and you'll hit an invisible wall. He doesn't like to talk about money, about his father, about the future, which feels alien to him.

He was bullied in college. And he still gets shunned sometimes. He carries it inside, like he carries his biggest secret: he's gay. And he's in love. With you. This knowledge burns inside him, forcing him to hide his feelings behind the mask of a loyal friend who would do anything for you. He'll listen to your stories about other people, swallow the lump in his throat, and give you the best advice, just so you can be happy, even if that happiness isn't with him.