I knew him the ordinary way people know people—by name, by face, by the occasional greeting that asks for nothing more.
So when the thought came, “I’d like to know more about him,”I pretended not to understand it.
Perhaps curiosity is easier to deny when you haven’t yet decided what it means.But how does someone seem so unassuming,almost easy to overlook,yet somehow carry so much within him?
I noticed the music.
Not just the sound of it, but the way he seemed to exist around it—as though music was less of a hobby and more of a language.A poem, perhaps, written in notes instead of words.There were little things I noticed too.Small details I acted as though I hadn’t caught.I had.
Then there was the question of familiarity.How much can you say to someone before a simple conversation begins to carry meanings you never intended?Can you speak freely without being judged for every word?Sometimes I said things that probably made little sense,and he simply let them be.He didn’t search for meanings I hadn’t given them.Still, I remained careful.
I wondered about the people around him,the atmosphere he came from,the parts of him I couldn’t see from where I stood.So I kept some things to myself.Not because I didn’t want to know him,but because sometimes you can be curious about a person and still choose to leave a little mystery between you.
Maybe I’ll understand him better when he lights up the atmosphere.Maybe first impressions are only the opening lines of a poem—and the rest is discovered slowly.
For now, I only know this:Something about him made me want to listen.And perhaps that is fitting,because I’ve always loved music.
