Knowing him was different. I knew it was different because the things that I noticed about him weren't usual things. I noticed how he rubbed the fingers of one hand together when he felt nervous or anxious. I noticed the way he ran his fingers through his hair and the way his chest moved when he laughed. I loved his laugh. Hearing him laugh was like a warm summer afternoon or the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard.  His hair was the dark brown of vintage furniture and his skin was golden from the sun, highlighted by the soft freckles that covered his nose and ran up his arms. His eyes were blue as if someone had mixed cyan and periwinkle watercolors into a mesmerizing combination that seemed to swallow me whole whenever I looked at him.  I noticed how he smelled to, like a thunderstorm and summer rain mixed with the indescribable sent of boy. He was perfect and I think I loved him a little. But he loved her. She was perfect too. She was nothing like me. Her skin was free of the scars from summers spent riding bikes and climbing trees. Her hair was glossy and long. She looked like she had stepped out of a book store or was about to have coffee in some French café at any moment. They were the kind of in love that makes the world stop and watch for a moment. Sometimes I wonder if I wanted the boy or what they had.  I knew I had to move on, because this perfect, beautiful boy would never choose me. He was her beautiful, perfect boy. Two halves of one soul, finally united. They were perfect and I could never offer him that.  I still dream of that boy sometimes. I imagine holding hands or running barefoot across a field only to collapse from exhaustion, him on top of me with our breath mingling, mouths inches away. But just before our lips can touch, I wake up. I always wakeup.  I know I can't have him. I want to chase him, but I don’t. There are some battles I can never win. Instead, I'll stay here, waiting for the day I find my beautiful, perfect, boy.