A/N: The thing about my fiction is, it's not usually fiction. It's more like a caricature of my life.


I've wanted to write about you for so long. I don't even know you, so really I guess I've wanted to write about who I think you are, who you might be.

I know your name is Andrew, and I know that you have dark hair and wear dark clothes and are very quiet. By looking at you I would guess that you listen to heavy music, some kind of rock that would make me cringe. Still, a part of me can't leave you alone. You assume a complete identity in my mind.

Sometimes I think I see you sitting in your room, an upstairs room at the end of the hall. The walls are dark blue, and there are posters of your favorite bands scattered about the walls and the ceiling, which is domed. Your bed is plain and messy, the sheets a shade of blue that matches the walls. You have a desk against one wall, a messy desk – for some reason, to me you're just very messy, a clothes-kind of messy, with hoodies and jeans lying all over the floor and the chair, which sits cockeyed and adjacent to the desk.

The room has one great, big window that looks down onto Lake Road and then off into a field, and then off into the woods. Actually, just a short distance beyond those woods is my house. But you don't know that.

Sometimes I think I see you staring out that window, which spans from ceiling to floor. I see you laying on your stomach, your chin resting on your fists. Behind you the door is closed and locked, but you know there is no actual threat to your privacy. And really, all you want is privacy, to be left alone to stare out the window, down onto the road, then off into the field, then off into the woods. There are deer in that field and those woods; I wonder if sometimes you see them grazing, or coming dangerously close to the road, threatening to bound across it in a race with an oncoming car.

Rarely, I ride my bike into town, and on these trips it is necessary to pass your house. I wonder if you have ever seen me ride by on my purple mountain bike, straining with every pedal forward, my hair whipping behind me, falling out of the sloppy ponytail I forced it into to get it out of the way of my face. Probably you wouldn't think me any different than any other person that rides past your house on a bike. I can't really blame you—you probably don't think about me. I'm not even sure why I think about you.

But when I do think of you, I think of you lying there before your window. I know this is silly, as you probably have much more engaging things to do than lay on the floor in front of your window, watching deer and people on bikes. I don't mean to imply that you have no social life. But for some reason, that is how I see you. And I see sun shining in through the window, fat, wide strips of it, landing on your black jacket, making you warm. I see your eyes following passing car after passing car, careful not to convey really any emotion, as if there were anyone but me to see it there upon your face. And even I can't really see it. I can't really see you.

But in my mind I do, yes, in my head I do. And I think you're not lying there watching cars because you are bored or because you are lonely or because you have nothing better to do. I think you are lying there watching cars because you are thinking. Yes, you are thinking of a great many things, and your eyes act as shields, protecting your inner thoughts, systematically following whatever thing moves on the ground below as a skilled method of camouflage. How clever you really are!

And now I can only wonder what you are thinking. This, in my mind, I cannot see. I cannot hear what you are thinking; I cannot tell what it is that you feel. But that's okay. I don't have to. I will just continue to ride past on my bike, wondering about what you're wondering about. I'm okay with that.