I keep coming back.

Even after he has discovered my existence, I keep coming back—even though I’m afraid, my feet drag me back to the same place under the tree that stands in front of the flower shop. There are some days where I force myself to stay away from this place, yet I come nonetheless.

As I sit underneath the tree, silently watching the people walk past me, leaving me in the dust, I glance towards the glass window of the flower shop. Almost immediately, I notice he’s not there. The flowers are left unattended, alone. I start to panic; this was the first time I hadn’t seen him inside the shop.

“You always sit there. Doesn’t it get kind of lonely?”

My body tenses, my thoughts stop racing, my breath hitches and I am afraid to turn around. I’ve never heard his voice before but I know it’s him, the boy from the shop.

Despite not wanting to, I turn anyway. He’s looking down at me, a plastic bag in his left hand and his right hand stuffed in his pocket. It’s weird, seeing him up close—I was so accustomed to seeing him from afar that I had forgotten he was also real, like me.

“You don’t seem like much of a talker,” he starts. “I don’t want to be rude, but are you mute? Or deaf? Do I need to use sign language?” There’s genuine curiosity in his eyes as he sets the bag down and starts moving his hands, “I learned sign language in high school, so I can understand you!”

“I’m not mute,” I blurt out, continuing to stare at him. “Or deaf.”

“Oh.” The boy nods, scratching the side of his head. He picks up the bag and smiles apologetically, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” I force myself to tear my eyes away, but I can still feel his eyes on me. It scares me, having the boy I’ve watched all this time finally look back at me. It’s scary knowing he can actually see me and I’m not invisible. Why can’t I be invisible?

He takes me by surprise when he sets the bag back down and sits beside me, keeping his distance. My eyes widen and I want to say something against his actions, but my brain can’t think of anything to say and my mouth refuses to open. “Do you sit here everyday?” he asks, crossing his legs. He tilts his head to the side and looks at me. “How do I look from here? Does the window make me look different?”

He knows.

The boy laughs when he sees my shocked face. “You’ve been sitting here for a while,” he says again. “Looks like you wanted to come in—why don’t you ever come in?”

“It’s not like I watch you on purpose,” I finally manage to say, but my voice is still quiet. “I just—this is just a really nice spot.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he says. “Do as you want. I don’t mind you sitting here and watching me all day.” He pauses and leans closer to me, “But I think I look a lot better from inside the shop.”

“Huh?”

He smiles and stands up with his plastic bag, leaving me confused. “The door’s always open for you,” he says happily. “Goodbye!” He walks away.

I watch his back as he makes his way towards the flower shop, opening the door for someone to walk in before him before walking in himself. I sit in my place, still baffled from the conversation (could I even call it that?) that we’d exchanged. I still find it hard to believe that he knows, that he’s known—have I made myself that obvious, that exposed?

Still, a small part in the back of my head finds the whole situation amusing. In fact, it’s the reason why I could feel a smile form on my face.