Sometimes I wonder if you even know what you’re doing to me.

It’s not like you say much. Not to me, anyway. Not in words. But you don’t have to, do you? It’s the way you look at me sometimes, like I’m some damn mystery you’re trying to solve. Like I’m worth understanding. And that’s dangerous. That’s the kind of look that stays with me, echoes in my head long after I’ve slammed my trailer door shut and flopped back onto my mattress like I didn’t just spend five whole minutes pretending I wasn’t waiting to catch a glimpse of you.

You live in the trailer next to mine. You and your mom moved in a few months back. No one really talks to newcomers in Forest Hills, but I noticed you. I mean, how the hell could I not?

You’re beautiful in that doesn’t-know-you-are kind of way. Always with your nose buried in some book or staring off into space like the real world’s just… background noise. Your voice is soft, when I hear it—which isn’t often. But man, when you do talk? It’s like I’ve been holding your breath without realizing it. You know?

You like the way I dress. I caught you once, staring at my rings while I was lighting a cigarette. Didn’t even hide it. Just stood there, eyes on my hands like they were something holy. And then, when I looked up, you smiled. Not big. Not dramatic. Just the smallest twitch of your lips and this barely-there tilt of her head like you were daring me to say something about it.

I didn’t.

I never do.

We have this silent thing. A language made of glances and small gestures. Like, the other day I came back from practice and my amp cable was fried. Total mess. Next morning? There’s a new one hanging off my trailer door, wrapped in black ribbon. No note. No explanation. Just you, sitting on your porch steps with a cup of hot cocoa, looking anywhere but at me. But you knew I knew. And I gave you that look—you know the one. The grateful, kind of stunned, kind of “I’m not sure if I’m dreaming” look. You blushed. Turned your head so quick I almost laughed.

Then there’s the time I fixed your porch light. You didn’t ask. I just saw you coming home one night fumbling with your keys in the dark, so the next day I grabbed a bulb from Wayne’s toolbox and did it myself. You caught me halfway through, leaning out your window, hair a mess, wearing this oversized sweater that was falling off one shoulder like some goddamn indie movie. I swear my brain short-circuited.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, barely above a whisper.

I shrugged. “Yeah, well. Don’t want you face-planting in the dark.”

You smiled again. That shy, quiet kind that makes you feel like I did something right in this messed-up world. Like maybe I am not the freak everyone says I am.

Wayne’s noticed. He hasn’t said anything directly, but he gives me these looks. The kind that say, ‘be careful, kid’. And yeah, I get it. I do. But it’s not like I’ve got some master plan here. I’m just trying to make sense of it, of you, of this thing that keeps growing between us when no one’s watching.

You like the music, too. I caught you humming one of my tapes once—Iron Maiden, I think. You’d never admit it, but I saw you tapping your fingers against your thigh like you knew every beat. You even left a sketch of a guitar on my porch once, folded into a paper crane. You don’t just do that unless you’re trying to drive a guy crazy.

We don’t talk about it. About us. Not that there’s really an us. But there’s something. And that something crackles in the space between us like feedback before a killer solo.

You’ll pass me in the driveway and brush your hand against mine like it’s an accident. It never is. I’ll offer you the last soda in the fridge without saying a word. We’ll sit on our respective porches at night, and not say anything for an hour—but somehow, I feel closer to you than anyone else I’ve ever known.

Sometimes I want to ask you. Just ask—what the hell is this? Is it real? Do you feel it too, or am I losing my damn mind?

But then you’ll glance at me over the rim of your mug, and I know.

She knows.