Why it had to be so difficult to talk to someone was beyond her. She didn't know what she would possibly have to be nervous about.

She had a home now, a decent job, a pride about herself that she would be okay-- but none of that seemed to factor in. She felt like she was probably being amazing naïve, but couldn't really help it.

Her insatiable curiousity about the gray boy was driving her mad. What was he writing in that notebook every morning now? What was he humming? Why did she not know the song he was humming?