I'm glad I didn't let myself think I was too special. Ilya is not my friend. He's just a guy from my English class who gave me a ride home one day. Yeah, he kissed me, but that was not a kiss of love. That was a tactical kiss. He was interested in my drink, not me. Most importantly, he has other friends.

He hangs out with the druggies at school, and that is not a crowd that I want to be involved in. It's better that I follow the advice of my parents and Madeline, who might as well be my second, more emotionally invested mother, and stay far away from Ilya Turner. I can still be civil towards him, as I wouldn't wish to develop the same kind of negative reputation that I would if I hung out with Ilya, but that's as far as our relationship will go.

Somehow I know that this is not a solid plan. My heart calls out to him as I pass by him and his druggie friends, who are laughing about something stupid but something I could never be a part of. Ilya catches my eye, and I feel as if I have overstayed my welcome or as if I have intruded somehow. He seems to be debating something silently, and his friends notice and look at me suspiciously as well. I do not appreciate the way in which they do this. I've spent so long passing by unseen, and now I'm their focus. I shrink inside.

Ilya trots over, and with each step on the ground, I shrink further into myself.

"Isaac," he greets me with that dazzling smile that I forbid myself from loving.

"Hello, Ilya." I keep myself reserved.

"Wanna get out of here?" There's that personal eye contact again. It's capable of tricking me into thinking we're friends.

"I thought you were hanging out with your buddies." I cringe at my word choice. Definitely not appropriate to use around someone like Ilya, a cool kid. I obviously haven't had much experience in social settings. Maybe if I mess up enough, he'll leave me alone and I won't have to worry about betraying my morals and schoolwork.

"They're idiots -- all of them. I don't care much for them."

I wonder why he would prioritize me over anyone else, and I also wonder why I'm considering going with him to wherever he's headed when I was just scolding myself for letting him in for one day.

With that voice that could make me do anything, he says, "Let me take you somewhere."

So I go.

~~~~~

Ilya brings me to an alley about a five minute walk from school -- not sketchy at all. He then informs me that it's his favorite hangout spot, which, again, isn't sketchy at all. And he also tells me that he fucked a girl here, which is probably the sketchiest. He could get arrested for that, but I should know by now that he doesn't give a shit. Ever.

I realize that he didn't just want to show me this place, but rather chill here, when he sits down and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Everything that my parents and college counselors have ever told me comes rushing into my head. I somehow manage to push it out of the way and sit down with him. I refuse the cigarette when Ilya offers it to me, though, but maybe I shouldn't be applauding such a tiny triumph. I'm still abandoning what I believe to be right.

I however find myself admiring the way he handles the cigarette. His slender fingers hold it gently, elegantly. The smoke winds around him like the breeze. He looks reposed. Ilya, who never stops moving, never stops doing things, is peaceful under the influence of nicotine. I pull out my camera and snap a picture to remember forever. Ilya grins, eyes closed.

"You seem passionate, Isaac," he says.

I ask what he means.

"I mean that you remind me of myself when I was younger. You have ambitions, talents, your niche." Ilya takes a drag of his tar and chemical stick before he continues, "You're motivated, and you have your whole life planned out, it seems. I find that admirable."

"I thought ambition wasn't your thing." Now that I say it, it sounds harsh, but I'm sure he's heard much worse from disapproving adults.

"I just like to think there's a little more to me than not caring about anything." He nods as if to affirm this as the truth.

"If I may say, I think you're brilliant."

Ilya tilts his sharp brow upward. "Did you refuse my cigarette because you're already on some drugs?"

I laugh. "There's just something about you, Ilya. You may not be conventionally brilliant, but you said it yourself -- you don't believe in conventionality. But I believe in you."

"I thought I was in a musty alleyway, not a therapist's office," he comments.

Dejected, I look down at my feet in front of me.

"Isaac," Ilya says in a reassuring sort of way, touching my arm lightly to get my attention. He gives me that personal gaze again. "Thank you."