It started like every other day. You noticed him the second you slid your curtain aside. Maurie Balfour. He slouched on his porch, chewing on a stick of chocolate. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair a mess like he’d just woken up from a nap he didn’t mean to take, and somehow, it made him look even better.

You froze, one hand still on the curtain.

Across the street, he scratched the back of his head, completely unaware that you’d been watching him all week. All month. Since the beginning of school, really. Maybe even middle school...You saw him at lunch sometimes, between classes, on the street...and best of all in Science...three seats behind him but hey it was still something!! He didn’t look your way. He never did.

Your mind played out the possibilities in flashes: walking over casually, pretending to check the mailbox, maybe pretending to drop something and Oh wow, what are you doing here too, Maurie? Hey I think we go to the same school, Maurie! Woah, you look really good, Maurie.

…But each imaginary line fizzled out the moment you thought about actually saying it. It always did. You chewed your lip and let the curtain fall back into place, stepping away like it had burned you. He was still there, though. Just sitting.

You paced your room. Once. Twice. Three times. You considered writing a note and slipping it in his mailbox. No! Too weird. You considered waiting until it got darker and pretending you needed help moving a box from your mom’s car. No. Too suspicious.

Everything just too stalker-y.

Then something shifted. A breeze through the open window, maybe, or the way the light hit his face through the trees, softer now, golden in the afternoon haze. He leaned back on the porch step, stretched his legs out in front of him, and looked straight ahead. Your feet moved before you could stop them. Down the stairs. Out the door.

The air hit your face like a slap. Not cold. Just real. You blinked against the brightness, your hand brushing over your hair, smoothing it back even though you weren’t sure why. He wasn’t even looking at you.

Until you hit the edge of your lawn.

And then...

He glanced over.

Your throat dried up like a desert. You managed a step. Then another. Your hands were suddenly clammy. You rubbed them on your shorts like it might help. You stopped at the edge of his driveway. Your eyes locked for a second. Just one. His eyebrows lifted like oh hey, do I know you? but not in a mean way. Not in a who the hell are you? way...maybe...hopefully...

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Instead, you stepped up onto the bottom porch step and sat. Not beside him, oh God, no, but a good two feet away. Like a safety buffer. Like if you sat any closer, you’d short-circuit or explode or both...

Silence stretched between you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t talk. Just…watched the street again. Like this was totally normal.

Like you being here was totally normal.

The chocolate went back into his mouth. He chewed.

You stared ahead like it was the most interesting road you’d ever seen in your life. Your heart was hammering. You swore he could hear it.

Then, without looking over, Maurie said, real casual-like:

“You live in the blue house, right?”