Hey, who are you? I see you hanging out all the time in here, but you never say anything, hello or anything else, nothing.

Whatcha doing here? I’m not trying to scare you or anything. A lot of times I don’t notice you, because you bury your head in one of those books you carry like artillery. You look like anyone else, until you look up, and then I know it’s you.

I notice you when you look out the window, like you always do every time: that’s when I can see it’s you again. You look hard, for whatever is missing, that’s what you’re looking for out there. Like if you just stare hard enough, you’ll find it.

What are you looking for out there? Just as I think I’ve figured it out, you catch yourself, like it was something you didn’t want anyone to see. Then you go back, incognito with your books. You think you’ve caught yourself before anyone notices.

Mostly you’re right. Everyone who comes here is so stuck in their own world they’re too narcissistic to know you. I know because I see them all. But then I see you too. And then I wonder?

Who are you?

Will I ever know?