The boy wasn't young. He wasn't old. His face didn't sag under the weight of his own skin, and his lips weren't shriveling in on themselves and turning into his face. His chocolate hair wasn't silver, nor did his aftershave smell like old deasel. Not even his large hands held the stain of dirty work inbetween the fold lines where his bones folded, and his face wasn't just barely holding on.
         He wasn't even a child, bouncy with freshness of energy and the innocence of another day coming. He didn't have the shoulders of a thin boy made of bones, or the obviously small fingers of a child who hands over the money in his tiny fist to the store clerk.
         I could see it in the way the way he walked, gently stalking over the earth in harsh tones. The way he had his black hood shielded over his face in a defensive manner, and all those silver looks he glared back and forth as the people receded down the hallway in front of him, that his age was indefinately older. A thousand years ahead of the bottles of booze most of us got to at the end of the day. He was past fun, and hit the world like a plane aflame with a scent of burning metal, tumbling towards the earth.
         But he was alone, and I shuddered at the way his eyes tranced over the different people, giving each of them a separate look, personalized for their different chuckles, and personalities. I wanted see a spark of a smile hidden beneath the ridges of his sharp jawline. He was good looking, no one could deny that, even more so then the ones who were known for their good looks, but he was understated because of the way he slumped around. He had a habit of dragging his feet when he walked, the typical symptom of an outcast.
         He reached the end of the hallway and stood still, staring at the way the wall flowed around the corner into the next set of rooms. I expect he was because he wanted to waste some more time doing nothing just so it would seem like he wasn't alone. The determination he in his eyes was clear. He didn't want to be alone, and I guess he stopped before the corner, knowing that what was behind the bend was another patch of lonliness to cut through.
         I touched his shoulder, but he didn't feel me. He just flicked me off as if my hands were just an irritating fly that didn't respect that they were meant to stay in the air. I ignored his wavering hand, because even though he didn't see me, standing there with my hands open, I imagine he misses me somewhere in the corners of his mind. Behind his staring eyes.