Those skinny jeans I bought for you.

I look at Nate. He is so young. We stand in a Los Angeles open air mall, a little down time before the show tonight. Most of us are looking out at the timeless HOLLYWOOD letters that rest in California's grandiose hills, but not me. I’m looking at Nate.

He looks out over today while everyone else snaps cameras and sends picture messages. And he is still. His chin is closely shaven, though this thin scruff is the only thing about his face that proves to me he’s not just a boy. His jaw is closed, tranquil but firm. I consider if I know Nate’s expressions better than I know anyone else’s, better than I know my own. Because his eyes have been full all day and though I pretend to ponder over what’s on his mind, I could probably make a pretty good guess. It’s not one thing, it’s many. It’s a handful of things he can neither control nor change. But Nate’s the kind of poser that can handle that. He can twist them around and coat them with sugar. Like frosting.
I decide this expression this afternoon is him taking a break from poser-dom for a few seconds. A stern breath while everyone slips on without noticing his walls are down. Right now his eyes are bluer than that man-made river we saw in St. Louis. I wonder what he sees when he’s like this, when he’s looking at nothing at all. And I decide in this instance that youth, (however relative a term it may be,) is honest. I look at Nate. He is so young.





...Terica.
"Walls" by: All Time Low