I don’t think much when I see him.

Just a normal kid, earphones stuck in his ears, head bobbing a little as he walks down the hallway. He has kind of a lean to his stride, an easy-going tilt that makes everybody else appear hurried and rushed. My eyes scan continuously through the crowd, rest on him for half a second, and scour on. He doesn’t hold my attention. No one does.

My classes pass by quickly and slowly all at once. When I enjoy the topics, the time speeds by so swiftly I wonder if the clocks are inaccurate. When the teacher lectures with the same dull, monotonous voice, repeating the same litany of information, I begin to nod off. Five minutes later, and the time remains the same.

Finally, fourth hour ends. I gather my belongings and stuff them haphazardly in my backpack, carefully zipping it shut to avoid snags. My sister waits for me impatiently, tapping her foot a little. She huffs as I join her by the door. We leave and walk - a whopping four seconds spent together - before we go our separate ways; her to her locker, me to my German class.

The door’s locked, as usual. My teacher’s usually later than the students most days. I lean against the wall awkwardly, the bulge in my backpack preventing true comfort. I entwine my fingers together and stare at the ground, still intimidated by the teenagers strutting down the hall with the confidence of pro wrestlers and the grace of ballerinas. They are so natural as they whisper and laugh with their friends, so in tune with the world around them. I, on the other hand, am not.

I try not to let that get to me.

Students from my German class begin to line the walls on either side of me. None, apparently, seek to instigate a conversation. In a spurt of I-don’t-know-what, I move to the opposite wall so my back is against the lockers. It feels better to see my classmates without the chance of them striking up a conversation; still, I feel a small tear in my heart as I listen to my peers. They are so natural in social situations, arguing playfully and casually discussing the events of the day. I would never be able to retain a conversation so naturally.

Finally, the teacher arrives, and a collective “booing” ensues as the bell rings. The teacher just smiles one of those “whatever, I’m getting paid more than you ever will” grins, and jams the key in the door.

In a second, I’m able to realize the epidemic at hand as I move towards the door. The German students have formed a line - and I am the odd one out. I’ll have to either shoulder my way through or wait until the very last student enters, which I know will destroy my confidence. I can see it happening: none will chivalrously allow me in front, my heart will beat faster in faster in futile hopes and desperation, and I will be left with utter humiliation as all students sift through the doorway.

I am quite a sensitive individual.

This all flashes before my eyes as the teacher struggles to remove the key from the door. When he does, it’s too late - I can already feel my self-esteem shattering as the first student glances at me, looks away quickly, and keeps walking. The boy behind him follows suit. I stare at the ground, waiting and hoping, drowning and losing hope.

Something stops. I glance up, curious about the sudden pause in movement.
There he is.
The boy that now holds my attention.

The earphones are still plugged in his ears. He looks at me emotionlessly, one hand wrapped around the strap of his backpack while the other is stuffed in the pocket of his leather jacket. He nods at me, motioning me to move forward. I clear my throat.

“Thank you,” I say, my words horribly clipped. I wince, but walk forward. I feel his eyes watch me as I robotically move through the door and to my seat.

How could I sound so unbelievably rude? Just two words, and I still manage to make them sound like a battle cry.

For the rest of the hour, I don’t look at him. I just do my work, shoulder my backpack when the bell rings, and run out the door before I can embarrass myself further.

By the end of the day, I’ve discovered a way to apologize to him for my ridiculous tone. As trivial and idiotic as it seems - and it is trivial and idiotic - I decide to friend him on Facebook. So dumb, I know - but stooping to the levels of companionship on social media seemed the only way to a solution.

The bell rings for the final hour, and the weekend begins. Excited for the coming trip to Wyoming I’ll be embarking upon with my sister and best friend, I almost forget to friend him on Facebook when I get home. Quickly - before my sister can question what the hell it is I’m doing, like she usually does - I select his profile, friend him, and drop my iPod unceremoniously upon the floor. It doesn’t change position for two days as I venture to Wyoming.

When I arrive back home, exhausted and sore, I find a notification plastered to the (thankfully non-cracked) screen of my iPod - a new message on Facebook. I smile shyly as I read the name.

And so it begins.