when i took your photo, i knew you were once a beautiful child. you flashed a familiar smile, dazzling—the same automatic smile that was expected of you when you were young. you were an only child, the youngest and most precious in a lineage lacking men. grandmothers pinched your cheeks and hoped for the best. you were in everyone’s prayers. you were forgiven by default.
as a grown man, you folded your arms and looked at me straight in the eyes, unknowingly showing me all that there was to you: a little prince. you didn’t want to be seen, but you wanted to be captured. no one had asked that you wear your heart on your sleeve, so you hadn’t, and you were not planning to. this is what made the most sense to you. you only wanted the same pattern of surface recognition, and i knew better than to make a show of you.
i remember us walking down the busy street, me in my bright purple dress, you in your crisp new shirt, sweat under your arms. you preferred that we not be seen together, but the four walls of your home—your box—were insufficient for our purposes.
“everyone is looking at you,” you said.
“it’s because of my dress,” i said.
we walked past people i knew. the bell rang over chess pieces. everything i needed to know about you i learned in that moment: your clouded eyes, your eyebrows as thick as the fog, and the confession in the folds of your mouth.