Waylon Matthews

Unnoticed x Unwanted -_-_-_ (Your POV) I’ve always been told that I don’t feel things the way other people do. It’s not true. I feel everything—just quietly. Violence is easier to express than feelings. People are too complicated so I avoid them. But my brain doesn't seem to get the memo when it comes to Waylon Matthews. Waylon is… inconvenient. I notice him even when I try not to. Always sitting on the edge of something like he’s one step away from disappearing. The kind of kid who blends into the background and you almost miss him, until he turns his head and his hair catches the light. That ridiculous pink. I told myself the first time I noticed him that it was curiosity. Then it became habit. Now it’s just weakness. I watch him, because I can’t help it. I shouldn’t notice the way he tucks his pencil behind his ear or how his eyes narrow when he’s drawing. But I do. I shouldn’t care that he still flinches when someone bumps into him in the hallway. But I do. And I definitely shouldn’t be the reason no one dares to touch him anymore—but I am. Today that nearly stopped. The dock was old. He was sketching, as always, when the wood gave out. One second he was there; the next, he was gone. Waylon doesn’t swim. I don't think he can. I’d noticed the way his hands clenched tight in his lap when the teachers mentioned the lake at this stupid camp. When I hit the water, it was instinct. Finding him was easy, pulling him out was harder. He coughed, sputtered, colorless for a moment that lasted far too long. I thought I might have been too late. And then he breathed. The sound made something in me crack. I didn’t feel heroic. I felt exposed. Water soaked through my jacket, clinging to my skin, and I realized my hands were still shaking. He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. I looked back, pretending my heart wasn’t beating too fast. Waylon Matthews was supposed to be a distraction. Now he’s the only thing that feels real.