I know that the boy who sits two rows behind me to the right in my history class stares at the back of my neck for the entire ninety minutes. He looks at the way my hair becomes light and wispy near the nape, and he wonders how often I condition. He remembers on what day I wore which sweater, and he is the only one who noticed when I wore the same pair of jeans for an entire week. He has seen the scar on the back of my hand, the one that starts near my little finger and wraps around towards my wrist. He has noticed that my boots are too big and my shoelaces too long.
I think his name is Roger. Someday, I'm going to tell him that I know he remembers when I wear my hair down.