M.A. Garcia

A character sketch

He’s the kind of handsome that’s not obvious. That’s not to say he isn’t attractive, he is, but he holds more personality in one fingertip than most people do in their entire bodies. He’s easily bored, leaning up against a window after studying for nearly twenty-four hours straight, scrolling aimlessly on his phone as if that’ll ease the stress of finals. He knew it wouldn’t but he’s tired and taking a break is the only thing on his mind at the moment. His heads bobs to the music streaming through his headphones, zoning out the world around him.

 

He’s the kind of person to get a haircut after one bad hair day. Slightly obsessive, but in the good way; acknowledging that everything has a place and everyone has a purpose but not too obsessive to enforce the level of perfection he wishes life would follow. At the same time, though, he thrives on impulsivity. Four tattoos, each holding a significant meaning to him, all obtained through the spur of the moment decision to permanently mark his body. He didn’t like being predictable, but his outfits always had to match. He didn’t like caring, but he couldn’t help it. He was predisposed to care about the little details behind everything, but he constantly fought that impulse.

 

He’s Hispanic, something that’s brought up by being the butt of his own jokes. He laughs when you tell him you’re taking Spanish, insists that he doesn’t understand your assignments, but the language rolls off his tongue in the same smooth way it had since the day he first began to speak. He’s worried, he says, because he’s the “white kind of Mexican.” What will his family do when he returns home�"well, not home, but around family in Mexico�"for Christmas and hears him speak a broken form of the language his heritage is so proud of? He does this a lot too; thinks too much. Well, so do you, so you two get along fine, but his worries out number even your immense anxieties. But it’s not bad intentioned, not to take away attention from you or belittle the things you go through. It’s flattering, in a way. A compliment. Letting you know how close he feels to you. Yeah, it can be exhausting, but it is a compliment in the simplest form.

 

His sharing, though, doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to hear what you have to say. He’s heard it all; from the “Summer from Hell” to the panic attacks bad enough to compel you to run away, if you had the gas money. He listens to every complaint and memorizes the lyrics, replays the story for you in a way you never dreamed it could sound, making something painful into something beautiful in a way only he could. He cares more than most people are capable of, a trait admired by all those who know him remotely well.

 

He’s not perfect though. Sometimes, his anxiety matches yours and two attacks in one space make you both more claustrophobic than comfortable. Sometimes, he’s tired of the tracks you play on repeat and doesn’t want to hear them anymore (but, honestly, who could blame him. You’re a handful). He falls in love as easily as you fall apart, which is good in the honeymoon stage of his various relationships, but leaves him falling without a parachute when his suitors decide that full hearted love isn’t what they need. Maybe that’s why he hides behind vague tweets. Maybe that’s why he’s friends with you. Two people, tired of being alone, choosing to be alone together.