Dear Tristan,

That night we sat around the fire, staring into the flames in dead silence, everything felt right.

I can't help but look at you. We make a lot of eye contact, but who knows if it really means anything anyways. I wanted to ask you something. Something too early to be said.

Your jacket smelled nice.

When I asked someone to walk me back to the house so I could use the restroom, you answered awfully quick. I liked that. Thank you. That black hat looks really good on you, and your bomber jackets suit you perfectly.

The fire light reflecting off of your face in the night, the silhouette of your side profile in the halo of the orange flame, your dead eyes staring into the coals, I couldn't get enough of it. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable with how frequently I looked at you.

Adrian was talking about us by the way. When he sat up from his tiny nap and said "I saw the future, and it's beautiful" he was talking about you and me. I heard from him just today that when he was laying down behind us, just looking at the two of us, knees touching, eyes darting back and forth, he told me it was like a scene from a video game. He said it was like seeing two puzzle pieces from different sets matching up perfectly. I hope that doesn't make anything awkward.

I know I talk about nic making me feel weird. I know I talk about how awkward I feel around people who smoke... But goddamn. You're too good at it. You know exactly what you're doing, you inhale so deeply and for so long, when the plumes come out from between your lips like feathers, slowly and intentional... It's so perfect and you do it so well I can't keep myself from watching.

Is it okay that I call you "white boy"?