I don't know his first name. He walks down the street casually, not exceedingly fast, nor too slow. He does not appear to have a care in the world. His face reveals the truth. His eyes are deep and dark, and speak of emotion I cannot comprehend. His face, devoid of wrinkles, is set in stone. A truck backfires down the street, and those beautiful eyes go wild. For a moment, his stony features lose their mask and he drops to the ground, cradling his head. The truck starts up, and the driver shouts a hasty apology to passerby. He sighs, relieved, and stands back up. The expressionless mask returns as quickly as it left. His muscles relax. I hadn't noticed how tense he had become. He unfreezes and begins to move forward, more quickly this time, as if embarrassed. I see his hands shaking. He forces them still against his sides, and shakes his head violently. It would have been a cute gesture if he did not look so haunted. How can someone as young as him have known such pain and fear?