This book is dedicated to all the things I couldn't tell you.

   You were always carrying that book.

  Red, cracked fingertips on red, cracked leather became a part of you, as unquestionable as your eyeless smile and messy black hair. Whenever my eyes drifted in your direction, you were always scribbling in it with a fine-tip Sharpie, the kind that doesn't leak. I became enraptured every time, watching you paint a smooth river of ink that no one could see but you. Your hand travelled with such certainty, such conviction, it was as if you were writing a poem you'd tattooed into your memory. There was never the quiet swish of the pen drawing a smooth line across an unwanted word. You were sure about every single letter.

  I can picture it clearly- the same strand of hair would always fall in the same place over the same eye, and I would get the same urge to push it back and nag at you with the same words to get a haircut. Your reaction would be the same- a vanilla smile and a soft shake of the head.

  Your smiles reminded me of vanilla. I don't remember why.

When people ask me why I refuse to fight back, I tell them I understand. I know why they are hurting me, I knew why they are so afraid. That's a lie. I never understood, I just didn't want to.

That doesn't make sense, does it?

You were always willing to stand up for anybody, no matter what they'd done to you before. I've always admired you for that. I could only stay still and keep the tears from showing, hold back the screams that wouldn't come out anyway. Instead of losing control when you were alone and surrounded by the silent night like me, you smiled and offered a quiet retort, one that would bind your opponent's lips together in an instant. I couldn't do that. I always told myself that they were humans too, that they had people who needed them to wipe their blood and sweat and tears away. If I hurt anyone, it would cause a chain effect. I didn't want that. Instead, I gave my silence, a cue for the torture to continue.

Why did you stand up for me? Why did you choose to get yourself involved?

'Don't touch him.'

In a dramatic sense, those three words changed my life forever.

  You always sat at the back. The back of the rain-pelted bus when the weather was too bad for you to walk home; the back of the classroom, your head bent in concentration; the back of the cafe I worked at, never averting your eyes from the window next to you as if there were infinite wonders in each little morsel of vision. You never ordered anything, but I made it a point every day to stop by your table occasionally.

  You would glance up, your eyes reflecting the weather. They were somber and murky when it rained, full and warm in sunshine, peaceful and soft as snowflakes fell outside. I would ask how you were, and your lips would curve upwards in response. Although you carried a notebook to communicate with others, you chose to give me a simple smile instead.

  In a way, that was all I wanted.

  Your eyes had been wet and cold earlier today, I remembered as I was cleaning the tables after the cafe had closed for the night. A white piece of paper, frayed at the edges, lay on the wood surface, seeking my attention. I'd picked it up without hesitation, and in the inky river I'd watched you carve from afar on your precious, leatherbound notebook, I found your first words to me.

  Your hair reminds me of strawberries.

  I leaned back against the window, the cold, tortured glass pressing up against my curved spine. "Vanilla smiles and strawberry hair," I said aloud to myself.

  Later on, as our love dripped through my fingers, I would find myself repeating this over and over again.

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