the boy they called troye

19

Lovin U - Stwo
It's now Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19. He's laying on his white duvet, staring at his white ceiling, and he's remembering. It's late at night, just like it had been when Troye was crying last Friday.

It's now Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, and he's thinking about how he didn't go outside. He knows why Troye was crying and why he cries every Friday that's before Saturday and after Thursday and it's because of Mathew. The little boy with blue flowers painted black.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19. He's recalling what Andrea, the girl he's supposed to like, said about the boy from the flower field, how he's insane. Connor doesn't think he's insane, but then again he's never talked to him.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, and he's thinking about how Troye paints his nails. Everyday a new color to match the color of his choice of flowers that he never had a specific pattern for, expect for Friday's.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19. He sometimes sees the curly haired boy in skirts and sometimes in shorts that are a little to short and sometimes in nothing but a big t-shirt and briefs.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, remembering when Kian and him saw Troye at the local market four years ago buying makeup. He can still hear the cashier and his conversation as if they're having it right now.

"These for your mother?" She had asked nicely and Troye had chuckled.

"No actually, it's for me." A confused look.

"Why would a young boy like yourself need foundation and lipstick?" She said, pointing out only two of the many things on the counter.

"I want to feel pretty." Was his only reply and Connor remembers asking himself why a 14 year old boy would want to be pretty. He didn't ask. And neither did the cashier when Troye came back once a month for the same products.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, and he still has his own case of makeup hidden in a box under his bed. I guess he shouldn't say his makeup, considering he stole it from his sister, but he still had it. The bright red looked fantastic with his skin tone if he does say so himself, but he didn't feel pretty. The only boy that he ever thought looked pretty in red lipstick was Troye, and he wore it every Wednesday.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19. Troye saw him, once last year when Connor made the mistake of leaving the window open while he was walking to his normal spot in the field of flowers. His eyes where even brighter when they were focused on Connor and he instantly ducked his head with an embarrassed grin, Connor standing frozen in the window seal.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19 and he now takes precaution as he stares at the boy that seems to play by different rules, making a new look for himself every time he matched a flannel with a bow he sometimes attached to the crown of flowers he wore for the day.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, but he's confused. Because how can a normal boy be so intrigued with a not so normal boy when nothing's normal and what is, is confusing? You see, nothing's clear and nothing's simple when it should be in such a small town of suburban homes where nothing's ever new and nothing ever happens.

It's Tuesday with yesterday being Monday and the day before being Sunday and Connors now 19, and he makes the decision to go outside tomorrow. And not just to go to school and then rush back inside but too see the boy who wears makeup. The boy who sometimes doesn't wear pants and sometimes talks to himself. The boy who uses flowers to make crowns and sings roughly. The boy who's arms are a little to long and eyes are little to bright.

The boy who's alone. Troye.