He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling. The paint was flaky, and beneath it the mahogany carpet was sprinkled with white flecks, like ashen snow against a copper field. A tabby brown cat yawned wide and flicked a paw before falling back into a cat dream.

He did not see these things however. Grey eyes stared into emptiness, lost in the continuum of time and memory. No, he did not see any of his surroundings, the sun faded Lennon poster, or the rhythmic shadows created as the wooden panels of the ceiling fan twirled round.

No, he did not see any of those things. Instead, he saw blue, the peacock blue of her eyes. Eyes that would crinkle merrily when she laughed, eyes that could be as inviting as the cold waters of the ocean on a hot day or as cold and distant as Artic glaciers. He saw the way they had cringed in fear, and then hardened with stubborn determination, before their light began to wane.

He knew her face. She sat behind him in English, all whispers and giggles. He knew her name: Anna Jones. She knew nothing. Her hand had brushed against his once, as he passed back a teacher's handout. He hadn't noticed, but he had. His skin still tingled when he remembered. They never spoke a word.

He had been nicknamed The Lumberjack, because of the long flannel plaid and heavy farm boots he wore everyday, even in the sticky heat of the summer. It was not a nickname born out of friendship, nor was it one born from hostility or hate. He simply was The Lumberjack. It was an ironic name really, more suited for the starting linebacker of the championship football than for the scrawny junior varsity cross-country runner.

He rolled back around and forced his eyes shut, trying to erase the images that were engraved in his mind's eye. Nothing worked. He sat up and stared down at his calloused, hardened hands, trying to remember the feel of her silken skin against his. Lightly, he ran a finger-tip over the ridges and bumps of his palm and knuckles, lost in thought. It wasn't the same.