I never knew why my classmates had compared me to a sunflower.

Perhaps it was because of my visible features; my blonde hair and my clear brown eyes and slightly tanned skin from encountering the sun constantly throughout my days. Perhaps it was because I stood erect and tall, proudly for my age, despite my premature height. Perhaps it was because of my royal lineage that was carefully tucked away like the birthmark shaped like a sun that I hid, because of the truth that I was, in fact, a prince. But as I grew older, I knew why they had thought I was a sunflower.

Because you always see sunflowers alone.

In pictures, I see fields of sunflowers or a single sunflower, never a few, never a group. They seem to be solitary flowers, like how I was a solitary child, and a solitary teenager. When they do, however, begin to grow friends or relatives - more of their kind - they will grow in an abundance. But I'd never had a chance to have such pleasures. At least, that's what I had thought.

But I did get a chance.

If you saw a small, blonde Freshman stumbling around high school, it wouldn't really a big deal. Usually little cliques form, and he finds himself in one by the end of the week. But I didn't like people -- I didn't like their smiles, their laughs without crinkles in their eyes that screamed their artificial personalities. I was searching for something real.

I was searching for it for my entire life.

That urge to be around those who are real and true and unafraid was so great in me, I wondered if I could burst. Normally, teenagers only want to conform to their general public -- their peers, their classmates, their "friends." But I didn't have friends. I never had friends. I had no one to conform to, and although it sounds great, all I really had were ones to go against. Precautions were made because of the attacks at the palace of my home country, and my trust had been wounded forever. I couldn't open up so easily.

And it hurt, being alone. But I was so numbed to the loneliness that even those sleepless nights friendless were second nature to me.

But isn't it human? To have that painful need to feel loved, to feel wanted and to feel appreciated. It hurt in my heart, and it was this painful yearning to be loved.

But no one would love me.

I was usually paired with random people in class for group projects, whom I never stuck around. Sometimes they were friendly enough to ask about me, sometimes talk, but you can't have a one-sided conversation. They quickly began to assume I was stuck-up, and none of my classmates cared to share another word with me outside of class.

I wasn't very involved, either. Nor did I seem scared. What, to be embarrassed? To be punished by the kids that everyone idolized? No, I didn't take part in this cat and mouse society which one group would run. This monarchy of sorts -- I was not too good for them, neither was I below them -- I was their equal. I am their equal, for all of us were children at the time. Their silly little game of thrones, where they would battle each other out with fights and silly phrases that stung at even my heart. Although I may have stood proud and taken their blows, embarrassing or not, by the end of the day I could not help but feel sour and worthless.

I couldn't do much, either. I was quick, but I had a very quiet, mouse-like voice and large eyes, a thin frame that made my uniform a bit too large for a small boy like myself, tiny hands and standing quite short at 5' 4". I was still a freshman at the time, and while others hurried to fit in, I remained alone and ridiculed. Prince Leonardo, the ostracized lion cub.

A lone sunflower.

------

I met him during December. I remember it quite clearly, for it is still one of the few things I can recall so well -- the courtyard was filled with snow, but despite the perpetual whiteness engulfing in a calm but frightening sort of way, I ventured out into the cold and stood there, shivering but marveling at the immaculate beauty of it all -- how the crystals fell from the sky and covered the grass in a blanket of softness. I don't know how long I had stood outside, but when I had been tapped on the shoulder, snow fell from my head and back upon turning around. A thin layer covered my plaid jacket and woven hat, and my cheeks stung.

"Although you seem quite infatuated with the serenity of the ice, I'm going to have to force you inside. It's much too cold out for a student, one especially like yourself, to simply stand outside."

I had nodded, but my eyes were locked onto the speaker's. His eyes were dark brown, black hair messily on top of his head, thick-rimmed glasses on top of a straight nose. He was quite pale, with thin lips and broad shoulders, a black winter jacket fitting on his frame that was much larger than my own. I didn't know who he was, but I followed him back inside.

"What's your name?" he asked me, his voice as equally appealing as his facial features, being very deep and husky. I hadn't noticed it earlier.

"Leonardo," I spoke quickly,

"What was that?"

"Leonardo." I slowed down this time.

"Ah. Your name had stuck out on the list. I'll be a substitute teacher for your English class. I saw you in the library earlier, too."

I nodded. So he was the English teacher. He seemed quite young, too -- still much older than myself, but quite young for a teacher, I suppose. Not as if I knew much about high school at all. "I like to read. It's a bit like leaving where you are for the moment and putting yourself in the storyline from afar..."

He laughed.

Embarrassment washed over me. This man would be the judge of my grades and my effort in class, and he definitely was not someone to simply chat too. I could feel the heat flooding across my cheeks and face, even to my ears, and I murmured an apology. I couldn't really help it if the term "english teacher" seemed so welcoming to me.

"Don't be sorry," he messed up my hair by mussing my hat around, and I couldn't help but calm down -- it was strange, feeling at such ease with another person, "It was beautiful. It's not everyday you find a student who truly enjoys reading who's able to talk about it freely."

I nodded, but decided to keep my mouth shut. He told me that the library would be closing for today, since they had to clean it up a bit before winter break. "It was nice meeting you, Leo. I'll see you tomorrow, second period, right before flex."

And he left. I sat there, watching his back as he continued down the corridor outside of the room we had just sat in together, and I admired his strong shoulders and slim waistline from afar. Little did I know I had developed my first crush.

-----

We have four periods per semester at my school. In between is a period called 'flex' that runs for an hour -- to eat, meet up with clubs or study for the next two classes. Classes are 70 minutes. At least we have less homework.

"Hello everyone! My name is Henry Gold. I'll be your substitute English teacher for the time being until Mr. Jeffrey comes back." he smiled. The class wasn't full of idiots, but there still were a few jocks and crumby assholes around.

"Now what I'd like to do with you for the first fifteen minutes is a bit of . . .a get to know me sort of game. And not those stupid things that you won't remember thirty minutes into the class like what color I like, but things like what my major was, what my favorite book is, key things that you can associate with my personality. So, who's first?"

A hand shot up. He was smirking, and I knew something was up. "Yes, Mr. Davis."

"Are you a virgin?"

The class giggled. "No." he responded. One of the meatheads in the front whistled. Another one raised their hand, someone that I knew had something worthwhile listening to -- it was Cassandra Evans.

"What's your favorite book?"

"The Great Gatsby, tied with Wurthering Heights."

I had read both of those. "What's your job?"

"I am a literature professor at Champlain normally, but I've been asked by your principal, who's the father of a good friend of mine, to be a substitute teacher here briefly."

I couldn't look away from him. Although I was listening to the words that were coming out of those soft lips of his, I was mesmerized at the charisma that flowed out of his character, and how wonderful it would be to get to know him further. The questions continued, but soon class commenced. I was still staring at him, and we would briefly make eye contact from time to time.

"Leo."

I blinked. Hard. He snapped me out of my reverie, but luckily I usually knew just about everything about English class, and the book we were told to read for class -- ironically, The Great Gatsby -- and I was quite sure that even if Henry Gold made it his mission to catch me off guard, he would be unable to. I've read the book at least five times because I loved it so much. Upon really looking at the board, I realized that there were some notes, and a character chart.

"Do you see anything wrong with this?" he tapped the chalk end at the lines on the board. It had important points about each of the characters -- there weren't many in The Great Gatsby -- and as my eyes raked through the list they stopped quite early.

"Nick Carraway is not the protagonist, that's Gatsby."

"Oh? And why is that?" he smiled. I didn't smile back.

"Although Carraway may be the narrator of the story, that does not necessarily mean he's the protagonist -- he clearly states how the story is about Gatsby, therefore, Gatsby would be the protagonist."

"Well said."

"But Mr. Gold, that doesn't make any sense." Cassandra whined. It was obvious that she was the one who had suggested that Nick Carraway was the protagonist, and I tuned out the rest of the conversation. Although Cassandra was quite smart, she probably loathed me the most out of anyone in the class -- after all, I was the first to break her streak of first place in the underclassmen awards.

As she battled it out with Mr. Gold the rest of the class actually paid attention, and I couldn't help but notice how our teacher seemed to have cast a spell over the students in the class. Something about him was so hypnotically elegant and whimsically beautiful that they all were infatuated at the first glance. Occasionally he made eye contact with me when I looked up from my sketches, and he would give me this wry smile before going on with his lesson.

There had been a massive block, a difficulty that would take over my throat and heart and mind whenever I tried to speak my thoughts or my emotions ever since the incident at the palace. I no longer wished to speak to anyone or anything, and kept silent when approached. But something about Mr. Gold was . . . well, it was as if he made that disability vanish. He freed me, truly, and I no longer felt like a captive prince, but a free soul.

I had believed I was in love with the feeling of being free, and, because of this, I constantly came to Mr. Gold whenever I could -- it was ridiculous, the lengths I went just to meet this man. But, of course, he wasn't an idiot.

"Mr. Gold, I need help with the poem."

I didn't like asking for help, either. I was stubborn to the end, and I refused assistance from everyone and anyone. But I wasn't asking for help this time, I was getting what I wanted.

"Mr. Gold, I need help with the homework."

At least, that's what I thought.

"Mr. Gold, I need help with this story."

I mean, how much of me could one man take? He was bound to get tired of me.

"Mr. Gold, I missed part of the notes."

"I'm not daft, Leo."

I never liked nicknames, either. I wasn't supposed to get used to it, that is, since I was always called Prince Leonardo or some rubbish like that. But I liked it in secret. It gave me warm feelings, like a fondness or a pet name. What was he saying again?

"