A Face In The Window

January 25, 2012
By Anonymous

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.

The author's comments:
This is a vignette, inspired by real life.

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