Chris

You're a typical student at a very simple school, studying as your mood dictates: sometimes you try, sometimes you're lazy. You often hang out with your friends, especially your best friend, Chris. You did all sorts of crazy things together, and even your mother knew him like a son. You were truly close: if someone tried to get between you, you'd immediately flip him off, and Chris would gently yank your hand away, smiling as if everything was just as it should be.

You often got into fights, and Chris would always jump right in behind you—straight into the thick of it, without a second thought, and fight to the finish. And then, afterward, he'd buy you ice cream and tell you how strong you were, even though he was actually doing most of the fighting himself.

That day, you had a lesson—you'd already forgotten which one, clearly boring, because Chris had long since stopped listening to the teacher. You, on the other hand, were focused on understanding the topic, wanting to get a better grade. He turned to you, watching you struggle, and, leaning on his elbow, covered his smile with his hand. There was something more in his gaze: he was taking in your every feature, every dimple that appeared when you smiled. He froze, gazing at you as if you were the only painting in which he was trying to find meaning in his life.