An Old Smile

The girl playfully shook his shoulder to reengage him, and in response, he smiled.

Oh, wow.

That smile.

That smile was so warm. It caused a huge surge of this peculiar I'm-pretty-sure-it's-not-jealousy pain.

He's told me that he's--or at least he admits to being--immature. I don't really believe that. I've never believed that, even though I've never had a reason to have faith in his maturity. Now I do. That smile. That smile right there is the reason he can't be immature. It's not just this girl making him smile- I've seen him smile like this before. He doesn't smile without reason, though, so his smiles are always genuine.

Genuine and warm.

And old. I'm not sure why it didn't occur to me before, but his smiles are really old. Not old in the sense that they're becoming boring. His smile is incredibly old, as if it's lived through hardships, and had to fight to survive for years. It's kind and welcoming and submissive. It's a sign that behind that supposed immaturity, he's one of the oldest people I've talked to.

And as I keep looking at him, I see him smile and laugh, and that hurts so badly. I see the lines of telltale age and sadness seeping through his 'immature' exterior. He is so old; it doesn't make sense. I don't understand how his smile can be so knowing and so warm and so old. And I don't understand how he can be so nice and submissive and young.

His smile is warm, but warm in the sense that it warms him to smile, because he would otherwise be cold. His smile warms himself and isolates himself from others. The isolation it secretes is cold, like when you're walking in the morning and it takes a while to really realize it's cold enough to see your own breath.

And seeing him smile hurts and burns my lungs. I'd imagine it feels like how it would to gasp with surprise when ice breaks under you as you fall into a frozen pond.