Casual, not too much so but better dressed than he usually did. A hoodie over a collared shirt and jeans, the sweat dripping down his back goes unnoticed in the sweltering cover of his layers. His hands shake while holding a present comfortably wrapped; not snug, not fit, just loose enough to open effortlessly. He’d walk the pavement with shaky steps and staggering in indecision and anxiety of seeing his muse. She was dainty; pale skin, bags under the eyes, hardly a touch of makeup from days of lacking sleep, yet he sees it all come together more than the sum of the parts. He’d say, “for you,” but it gets stuck in his throat; he’s speechless and overwhelmed from what beats in his heart. She’ll smile and take the present; she’d hug him thanks but he could not let out a sound. There’s indecision and anxiety and lack of time. He’d say, “goodbye, hope you like the gift,” and leave while looking back after every other step. They’d never talk again.