He was a normal kid, for the most part, and maybe that was one of the things he admired most about him. The main thing they had in common was being an outsider, but Woodrow was so good at hiding it that anyone could guess he had lived in the states since he was born.
The only giveaway was the notebook he would sometimes open in class, filled almost cover to cover with a novel he was writing in French. He treated it as his prized possession, angry when someone even looked at it for too long. Obviously he couldn't read it, but Nolan was fascinated by it all the same.
If he thought about it too much he would break down and cry, but he couldn't help it. His handwriting that was hard to read, the way he wore his jeans just a bit too low, how his hair always fell into his eyes the same way. And the camera.
A red camera with a strap that was constantly dangling from his wrist. He would always take pictures at random times, whenever he felt like it. Nolan thought about what might be on the memory card, but he could never bring himself to look at it. And still the camera sat on his desk, nearly two years later.
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