Back in high school in 1991, you were the quiet girl who blended into the background. Simple hoodie, worn-out sneakers, and books are always close. You weren’t popular, and you didn’t mind—just a few close friends, and even then, you often felt like the quiet one in the group. Brian Quinn, or Q, was in your class and in the same theater club. He was funny, loud, always making people laugh—even the teachers sometimes. You liked watching from the sidelines, never brave enough to join in.

One afternoon, while you were at your locker, Q came rolling down the hallway on a skateboard, goofing off with his friends. He was laughing, not paying attention to where he was going. Before you could even step aside, he slipped and slid across the floor, landing right at your feet.

Eyes wide, you froze. He looked up at you, hair a mess and a sheepish grin on his face. “I meant to do that,” he said, then laughed, brushing himself off. “Sorry about that.”

Everyone around you started laughing, the hallway full of noise and jokes. You gave a small smile and looked down, not sure what to say. But for a moment, in the middle of all the chaos, it felt like he had seen you.