Nearly three years ago, I fell in love with a boy who had black licorice curls and oceans of dark chocolate for eyes. He was the type whose smile made you feel okay again, the type with a voice like the moment before an earthquake and a laugh like music. Sometimes his skeleton tried to peek out at you through the bones in his hands and I often wondered what it would be like to have those boney calloused fingers intertwined with my own. He could dig graves with that tongue of his, sarcasm dripping from it like water from a leaky faucet with enough wit to match me blow for blow. I was by no means the only one to ever fall for him. Even girls you wouldn't expect fell in love with the mischief glittering in his eyes when he teased. No one could ever completely grasp what was going on in his mind. He was awkward and weird and quirky in a way that made all of them seem like good qualities. What surprised me was not his usual lifeless expression, but the way he always, always smiled at me no matter what. What really ended me was that smile. It was armed to the teeth with butterflies to fire into my stomach, butterflies that never seem to age, never seem to die or fly away, but remain persistently, reliably, there. Three years and they never fail to reawaken. Three years and my heart still races. Three years and he still makes me wonder about that fairy tale look in his eyes, still makes me question everything he does. Three years and a confession and I still don't know if he ever loved me in return. Three years and I'm still curious about what his heart is telling him and whether or not he will listen.