Awkward

This is just a quick descriptive piece of text from a story of mine about two people who become serial killers because they're too socially awkward to make friends any other way.

James was twenty-four, six years older than me; he was tall, me plus another. His eyes were of a light blue, kind of cloudy, I always imagined it like a cloudy day or a waterfall, blue with lots of froth. He had a strong jawline and a pouty set of lips, he had these little dimples on either of his cheeks, perfect little dots, especially when he smiled. His nose was somewhat narrow but perfect for his face and his hair fell in a little fringe across his forehead, just bangs added to his short chestnut hair. He wore tight shirts and jeans, from blue to beige, and when I met him, he had this necklace but he lost that years ago. He was attractive, I had no doubt in that; he didn’t know it either, that’s what made it better. He wished he could draw but he couldn’t, he wished he could write, he couldn’t. He could play sports, and was an ace at trivia. But he couldn’t do too much more. He liked reading, but he liked drinking more. He drank until he vomited, and then he’d drink some more. I think he liked the confidence it gave him, I think that’s why he spent so much time with me too.
I’d only seen him properly speak to two other people, his brother and his mum. The three of them could talk for hours, joke for hours, but no, he couldn’t do that with anyone else. He’d stumble over his words, break sentences and sweat. He’d have a cold sweat, building on his lips, brows, and if he were there too long, it’d start to drip. That made him more nervous.
I liked James; he was genuine, his stutter, his twisted sentences joined together with mine so perfectly, but I still didn’t love him, nor did he love me.
I was eighteen, one hundred and seventy-four centimetres tall, minus some because I always stretched up on my toes. I weighed sixty-three kilograms, a loss of fifteen since the year before. There wasn’t a lot to me; I had hazel eyes with a hint of yellow, my jaw was round, no matter how small my cheeks were, and I had dimples too, only mine weren’t so prominent. I had smoker’s teeth, they were straight but they were yellowing. I had a funny nose, I could never tell if it were big or if it were small, it was just there, with a silver ring on the left. I had short hair, shorter at the back, and when I could be bothered, it hung in curls. It fell over my spaced earlobes; everyday I wore the same necklaces, a moon and a gold piece my mum gave me for my sixteenth. I never wore a lot of clothes, even when I went out, and I always had a pair of socks. I wished I could draw or paint, and I couldn’t really but I did it anyway, I wished I could write, and the same goes for that. I didn’t play sports, I went for runs, and that was as far as it goes. I liked reading. And I did a lot of it, from books to web pages; I liked to know what was going on. Two hundred years before or two seconds after. I drank until I vomited and smoked until I couldn’t; it gave me just the same effect, confidence.
I tried harder to speak but I found my voice failing, growing loud to quiet, thick accent to none. Rushed to a slow stutter, but I tried none the less. I could speak to my family just fine but not so much anymore. I couldn’t find the words to say because one slip of the tongue and they’d know me too well, so I kept my distance from them.