I remember when I first saw you I was a little afraid of you.
You had brown swoopy hair, just like all of your Catholic school friends. You wore your personality like your favorite t-shirt. It was the first thing people noticed about you. Unlike your funny Star Wars t-shirt you were wearing when you applied for your job here, everyone liked you. Your smile, naturally straight I found out later when you pointed out smugly that you didn’t need braces like I did, perpetually found its way to your face. Your voice loud, and laughter louder, were always waiting to escape from your lips. You were the first boy that I valued my friendship with.
I liked you so much I was confused. I carefully examined all my feelings like a scientist in an unfamiliar lab. Are any of these romantic? It doesn't matter. This was a new experiment.
You took me to a movie three weeks before I found out you were quitting, quitting the thing that connected us. You didn't like texting and Facebook was a foreign language. I asked you to be real friends, not just friendly coworkers, and you told me "maybe in college." So maybe we'll be friends a year from now. Maybe we'll go get coffee on campus and we'll both be really cool and different and maybe you’ll explain everything. For now I'm left wondering why you paid for my movie, why you stole my laughter, why you stopped talking to me.
Maybe when you last saw me, you were a little afraid of me.