You know her. We all do. She wears her hair without dye, and has a proud sense of compassion radiating off of her in waves. She bobs her head up and down, kicking her signature beat-up sneakers back and forth while humming an alternative rock song.

You also know she has almost too many friends, and only speaks to them all in certain parts of the day. Her favorite drink would be Starbucks coffee, but from the grocery store or gas station -- in a cold glass bottle, shaken to the point of perfect mixture. It seems she dedicated her life to Facebook, taking picture of herself and/or other senseless items. Shoes, bugs, stuffed animals. Anything goes for her.

She is unique, raunchy, laid-back, pretty, skinny. She is everything a girl could be jealous of. Instead of Barbie, she played Mario. Instead of Twilight, she read Halo. And instead of cheerleading, she banged up her long, tan legs while sliding into home plate. But everybody knows she isn’t a tomboy -- God forbid somebody saying she would hang out with idiots we call boys.

You know her iPod is broken from overuse, she would use everybody on the bus as a pillow when she was tired. People eat up her words like hungry wolves finding a field mouse, just because anything out of her mouth is golden and imperfect and real. She is a brilliant airhead with no self-control, a dreamer that lives in a reality she shouldn’t be in.

This girl kicks butt at most things she does, but never takes credit for most of it. Her family is huge, but she smiles and makes it bigger by reaching out to friends and lost animals. Being immature suits her, somehow, but she never lets people see her maturity that grows within her heart. If she did, nobody would see the girl she is instead of the girl she has to be.

Though boys never want her, and she only fancies a few boys. And you always wondered why until you realized she would never have time to treat them right -- she was so busy with dreaming, writing, wondering, pondering, living. There was no time to lean in and kiss a cute boy, or cuddle up against his chest. She would leave him in the dust before he could even lay a finger on her waist.

And that is all you know about her. Who she is. What you don’t know is her parents scream and fight and are getting a divorce. Her brother is a recluse who refuses to live in the dream world she finds safety in. Her sisters are in the dark about everything, because darkness provides as much protection as the girl’s dreams.

You don’t know she struggles with things. Fights with people. You don’t know whether to believe the story that the two cuts on her wrists were from clumsiness or something else. You don’t know she writes all the time, just because it helps her stay in the water, underneath the pain, underneath it all. You don’t know her troubles with sexism, ageism, and stereotypes.

You don’t know that she loves swings only because it reminds her she has a childhood she doesn’t need to leave. You don’t know she likes dangerous stunts because adrenaline clears her mind. You don’t know she is desperate to escape so she reads and reads and reads and dreams.

So what do you know? Nothing. You know nothing. She hides everything away like stashed candy and makes you guess what on Earth makes her so special. And sometimes, you don’t want to find out what she’s all about, do you? Living in ignorance, like her, is better than finding out the truth and having it stuck in your mind, eating you away for hours, weeks, months, years.

But you find out anyway. And you need to tell her. You want to reassure her. As she passes you, with that little skip in her step and those permanent glassy eyes and that dreamer smile, you reach out to say something. But all she does is say hello and give you a hug, like any other day. And you open your mouth at her innocent gaze, trying to get out words. But nothing comes, because you don’t know. You just don’t know.