Do you know what that kid’s name is? The one with the face, peering through the narrow window by the door, looking out at a world that seems not to accept him. You don’t? Me neither. It’s funny, in the mornings I see him there often, just another high-school boy with glasses and a backpack, just another tired looking face. Why is he tired? Lots of homework, or insomnia, or a cold house unable to afford a warm comfortable night? He face says nothing, peering out the window as if searching for someone; someone to commiserate about school with, someone whose face will ignite a smile upon his own. A friend. But not me, I’m too busy. I have other friends. And besides, what a weird thing to do anyway, he’s obviously a loser. Feeling like I should be damned to “Mean Girls” hell, I catch myself thinking; just like that. But I don’t change. He’s a book. I’m afraid to open it, afraid that his story will sound like mine, afraid I will humanize that boy out of being just a piece of the scenery. Afraid opening his book will open mine, allowing a wave connection crash through my body and drag me through an ocean of uncomfortably new interactions, marooning me on an island a million miles away from my comfort zone, where the only landscape is a palm tree with a sign hanging from, saying “loner”. I’m afraid of becoming another boy standing at the window next to him. All this passes in a second, a glimpse of his face peering out, and then it’s gone, I’m on my way to class, and the boy has disappeared.