I haven't spoken to him since that one night when he snapchatted me at 1 a.m. and I was still at Chick-Fil-A despite them having closed three hours ago. I replied because I'm foolish, and the empowering freedom of late night nuggets had gone to my head, and I thought hey what's the harm, thinking I was over that scorching summer stupor, but I suppose I'm not.

Now when I see him in the halls, walking fast to my next class, taking two steps for every one of his loping strides, we make awkward eye contact, and I think he's embarrassed that he tried to keep the streak going and that's why he ended it. Or maybe he ended it because he really doesn't like me and that summer stupor was just that: summer. But now he's wearing those soft flannels over white tshirts or ones with obscure band names, and he completes the look with baggy jeans and matching flannel boxers. Does he think it's cool, his pants sagging down like that, advertising to the world that he doesn't wear Calvin's or Hanes but some off brand boxers because he doesn't fit social norms? Earbuds in, no doubt listening to soundcloud rappers or that band he saw in Canada and told everyone about because he was high as anything and they sounded ~ethereal~ or ~transcendent~ I guess. 

So we make that awkward eye contact and neither of us say anything but we hold it for a few seconds -- just long enough for each of us to know it's not an accident that we looked up at the same time. We break it off almost simultaneously, or maybe I break it off and don't realize it because I'm too busy thinking is the back of my neck burning or is it just me I'm on fire on fire on fire. 

I wonder if he realizes that summer wasn't just summer and I've been infatuated with him since last December. I wonder if he knows I want to wrap myself in his flannel shirts and breath in, cocooning myself in well-worn plaid. I wonder if he knows I want to listen to whatever he's playing in his earbuds that's so enthralling, or does he just listen to avoid the burden of hallway conversation? I wonder if he knows that I don't smoke but I'd give away every weekend and sunlit afternoon to sit with him and watch leaves fall on the water. I wonder if he knows that in all his sullen, teenage angst there's something endearing about the way he tilts back in his chair and his stormy gait and his I'm-better-than-you expression that seems set in stone on his face. I wonder if he acts this way to hide how soft he looks when he smiles. I wonder if he misses our arguments like I do, because no one challenges me like he does.
I wonder if he thinks it's strange to see me. Does he think I've become too hipster-nerd? Does he wonder who I argue with now, over introspection and projection and voicing my objections? Does he over analyze our eye contact the way I do, and does he remember summer? He must. Right?

Anyway it's autumn and I'm still left curious over the taste of his mouth and I miss his words and wit and snark. My banter is one-sided as I lie here in the dark. I wonder if he thinks at night the way I often do, or writes down all these queries about who is missing who. The leaves are coming down now, and the branches are all bare: I feel like I'm the tree, my soul the limbs out in the air. The nights are getting colder and sometimes I pause to stare:

would that flannel keep me warm this fall, even if he's not there?