There was a boy called Alfred F. Jones, who lived a life he did not deserve.
He constantly smelled like coffee and sunshine and radiated heat. His grin was enough to bright up every room, his charm enough to make every girl swoon. He was admired by all. After all, talent was his middle name.
Yet, he was kind. Kind, caring, and naive in that cute oh-my-god-you're-so-innocent-let-me-just-cuddle-you-to-death kind of way.
Even though we didn't have classes together, since I'm a senior and he's a sophomore, he would come find me, every lunch, and sit with me. He liked to murder his stomach with a store full of McDonald's burgers each day, then wash it down with ten litres of cola. Because he was good-hearted.
He didn't care that I was different; he didn't care that I was British and he certainty didn't care about my social status in the school. And when I found out his secret, I didn't care. He was, and will always be, Alfred: my sunshine, my hero, my love.
And I was his Artie-Brows.