When I first met him, I noticed an air of dismissiveness about him. He seemed to take everything around him for granted, trying to fool everyone into believing that he was impervious to the ebbs and flows of the day that overwhelms us all. It was comforting and off putting at the same time and I didn’t know how to feel about him.
I would see his apparent disinterest in what people had to say, including me but I often found him bring up the most inane details of our past conversations. The kind of things even I didn’t pay much heed to when we spoke. I noticed that he had this callous way of paying very close attention and that he was actually a very good listener who pretended to not care.
It was the curiosity about human nature that his eyes were always brimming with that took a second glance to fully see. His beady eyes, barely visible as slits through his glasses were always trying to contain a darkness that I never tired of looking into. It was like staring into the abyss, trying to look for answers like they were constellations in the night sky.
Above all, I liked his perspective on things. He was able to dissect a crisis ruthlessly; making the entire spectrum of morality seem compelling enough to support or reject by the way he framed an argument. He could use his words to paint whatever version of a situation that he deemed fit and by the end of it, it was hard to disagree with him outright.
I don’t know how he did it, to be honest – how he managed to exalt and question people’s intelligence by slightly changing the arc of his smile. By the time I had noticed all this, he had become everything I found myself wanting. I began to validate my opinions when they agreed with him and reject the ones that didn’t.
I lost myself somewhere between the synapses of his brain and felt the electricity flow through me when we were together. I wanted to stop seeing the world through my eyes and start seeing it through his. I wanted to be the spatter that his brains splashed across a white wall would look like.
People think obsession is for psychopaths. Obsession is wasted on psychopaths, if you ask me. My obsession with his mind made me give up everything else I looked for in a person. I stopped seeing how other boys dressed, I didn’t notice how they did their hair or made smug jokes about my indifference about their existence.
I wanted to predict what he would do next, how his mind would work. At any given point, I would ask myself – what would Sid do? I would lie in my bed for hours, seduced thought of his coy smile breaking out like a flash of lightning when he thought of something interesting to say. Love was not happening anymore. It had already happened.