He was not like other guys. He did not possess the physique molded by work. He possessed the physique molded by the confines of his house.
He did not speak in deep, rough patches of words. His voice whispered with the wind and sang with the mockingbirds, and his recounts of his everyday life were effortless rhapsodies.
He was not as brave as most boys but he was not afraid of what most boys were afraid of: words that sought to bring the doors of hearts down with a crash.
He did not listen to his parents, his grandparents, and his ancestors when they gave him instructions to never allow a woman to beat him in arm wrestling, or racing, or sparring. Instead, he countered by being the master of words that made women believe that he was into women.
He did not pay attention to the customs that said that men needed to be the gents that they were expected to be to women. He never said "Ladies first." Instead, he said, "I'll carry your bags for you because I know you have a back problem."
He was probably absent when there was a global consensus among the males that they were not allowed to ask women for help in lifting weights or crossing the street. Instead, he asked women for assistance with no shame, in exchange for his future assistance with their schoolwork.
Still, it was okay.
He did not hold my hand to flirt. He held my hand because I needed his.
He did not embrace me with a pair of strong arms. He embraced me with the aching emptiness of his soul.
He did not say that I was adorable and he did not wink afterwards. Instead, he looked at me, paused, and told me that I was pretty and talented.
Basically, he made me feel safe.
Although he was no knight in shining armor. Even though he was no hero.
Basically, he made me fall.
And when I finally said that I did, he smiled sadly and said,
"You're pretty and talented."