At the sight of the boy, my heart melted. His soft, milk chocolate brown hair, billowing in the crisp November wind. 

"You have a very misguided life," chimes the devil perched on my collar bone. 

Thoughts raced through the blurred TV of my mind. The static giving way to occasional, stray thoughts that happened through its barrier. One shouted: "Go away, he doesn't  need you!", another whispers, "Isn't he beautiful?" The devil continues to cite reasons for why I am cumbersome and should be neglected. I tune him out. 

My angel sits in silence. Her eyes follow the movements of the boy's sodden honey colored Chuck Taylor's. As he continues his silent circles, on the snow covered ground. She is transfixed in his slow meticulous movements 

Maybe he has realized that the corollary of his steps is only grinding a deep line in the

ground below the thin layer of crisp white snow. Or maybe he can feel my stare. 

    He looks up; I am complete. 

Each step he took he pictured the warm crackling fire in the common room, he pictured the fuzzy weighted blanket, suffocating him. A camera shutter clicked. Some girls squealed. He was pulled from the water, a warm towel handed over. Warm, strong arms encircled him,  he was disinclined to ever move again as a blurry figure brought him tea. Earl gray. 

Steam rose from the mug. Ever flowing, spindles. Like feathers only mercurial. Milk poured in, billowing clouds through soft chestnut liquid. 

Stay grounded (the cliche). Don’t forget where you are: pacing. Sledding down silky, rounded cheeks of fresh snow, dreaming of a place where lukewarm rain thunders downwards.

Reality crashes back in. He can feel someone's gripping stare to his left. His head snaps up hoping he won't be looking into an empty void.

He sees her and the facades fall.