[ WP ] Write a character-based story from objective point of view : we can only observe actions and have access to the thoughts and feelings of no person .

It was the little things that gave it away. 
 
 It began in middle school. 
 
 A slight sway side to side, the lingering of his eyes. A subtle tension that came over him whenever she came near. It was n't obvious, but I could see it. It was his actions that gave it away. 
 
 Sure, `` dating'' in middle school generally sounds like the butt-end of a joke. You never hear of someone's `` middle school sweet heart''. Someone says they `` love'' you and it means just as much as the love they feel for pizza, or a cheeseburger. After all, you do n't love pizza as much when you are n't hungry. 
 
 But he did n't date her - heck, he barely talked to her. But I could see it. I could see the love he had for her. It was subtle, but not subtle enough. The clicking of fingernails. The wringing of sweaty hands. I imagine he loved her so much that his entire body, not just his heart or his brain, but the way he moved, the way he acted, all succumbed to her presence. He was different when she was around. And that was just middle school. 
 
 In high school, things began to change. 
 
 It took a while before anything really happened. Freshman year passed as quickly as it came. Dating became more serious than before but was still rather a joke among the older kids. Sophomore year, she did date someone. Tall, handsome. A smart guy, too. I could see the way his eyes burned whenever he saw the two together, as if he were looking at the sun. His fists clenching, gripping the straps on his backpack tighter as he strode faster in the other direction, head down. It's a subtle thing. Normal people probably do n't notice that sort of thing - but I did. Junior year came, and summer had wrung her tired of her boyfriend. Too protective, too flirtatious, did n't matter. Unfortunately, the work that came with Junior year built up a barrier between him and her, more so than usual. Even though he could count the number of conversations he'd had with her on one hand, it was n't hard to tell the words they'd shared meant as much to him as each of those fingers did. Senior year came, the threat of college looming in the distance a sweet hallelujah to some and a nightmare to others. Nothing had changed with the boy. He still showed the same symptoms, still seemingly saddened by his powerful and painful inability to proclaim his love. 
 
 The senior dance came, and still nothing had changed. The boy was slumped upon a bench outside the school, face in his hands, shoulders bobbing slightly. No one knew he had left the dance. No one cared. No one knew how the girl changed him. No one could see. No one but me. 
 
 It was a lifelong gunfight between fear and love, beginning in middle school when eye contact was first made. 
 
 Alone on the park bench, body broken but not damaged, I asked him if he wanted to dance. He said yes. 
 
 Five years later, he asked me if I wanted to marry him. I said yes.
