Everything got complicated when my parents decided to move halfway across the country. Did they care that I was in the middle of my senior year? No. Did they feel bad that a cute guy from Philosophy class had finally asked me out? No. Did they even ask what I wanted? You guessed it. Big, fat, no!

My parents didn't consider my feelings, but then they never did. Not the time my best friend and I had a fight that lasted three whole weeks, or when I broke up with my very first boyfriend. Mom said, "it happens," and Dad just shook his head and told me I'd, "get over it."

Even last October, when the principal liked my painting so much he asked to hang it in his office, my parents couldn't care less. I rushed home to tell them the great news, so sure that just this once, they'd be as excited as me. That this was such a huge deal that they'd finally take notice.

"That's nice, Dear," Mom had said absently when I told her the news, barely looking up from her laptop. Dad, who'd been reading something on his tablet, just grunted, and neither of them asked to see the painting. When I suggested they go, they said they didn't have time to drive to the school.

"Why don't you take a picture of it on your phone?" Dad suggested, as if that was even close to the same thing.

I mean, honestly, I wonder if my parents even see me as a real person, instead of just part of the furniture. They interact with me, on their schedule, but the rest of the time it's like I don't exist. Take this move, for example. As long as I was in the car, on schedule, I guess that was enough for them. It didn't even seem ton matter that I was crying. When I begged them to change their minds, Mom just said, "Don't be like that, Abigail," and Dad sighed and told me I'd, "learn to like it."

I decided to make the best of it, I really did, but when we got to the new house, I didn't even get to pick out my room. Obviously, my parents get to have the master bedroom, but turns out they've both picked out their offices, too. The largest bedroom has Mom's corner desk, and the one overlooking the backyard has Dad's. For a minute, I think they forgot my room entirely, but there's another door at the end of the hall.

I open it cautiously and discover that they've left me the smallest, most depressing room. My furniture is already there and it barely fits in the tiny space. I manage to squeeze my way to the window and look out at the view of the neighboring house. It's got an ugly red brick wall and a window positioned directly across from mine. I reach out, and my fingertips graze their soft, red velvet curtains. A part of me hopes someone will pull them open and give me something else to look at, but no such luck.

There's little else to do in my new room, except sketch and stare at the ceiling. My phone doesn't have a SIM card yet, so I can't call or text, and we won't have WiFi until next week. The worst part is that I have no one to talk to, not even my parents. They spent a total of ten minutes in the house, before they packed up their laptops and drove to their new office. It's not like I'm surprised, but at least back home I had my friends. Now, I'm all alone.

When Monday finally rolls around, I'm glad for something to do, even if that something is school. I wake up long before my alarm, but when I get to the kitchen, it's deserted. There are plates in the sink and a half-empty coffee pot, but no sign of my parents. They never bothered to tell me their new work schedule, but if it's anything like their old one, I doubt I'll ever see them.

I make my usual breakfast, microwaving the milk and then adding cereal, and sit down in the empty, unfamiliar kitchen. The silence is palpable, broken only by the clinging of my spoon against the bowl. Before I know it, I'm done eating, showering, and picking out a first day outfit. I even put on some makeup, blow dry my hair, and then add some curls. It's way more than I'd do on a regular day, but I'm that bored. My lunch is packed, and so is my backpack, and there's still an hour to spare. With nothing else to do, I sit down on my bed facing the window, open my sketch pad, and start to draw.

I did that a lot over the weekend, sketching the various residents I imagined I'd find next door. My favorite so far is a drawing of an old lady sleeping in a four poster bed, an open book draped over her chest. I decide I can top it and start to draw a girl's room, abandoned now that she's left for college. I decide I'll do that too—close the curtains before I leave for good. That way, if someone new moves in next door, they'll stare at my curtains and wonder about me. If Mom doesn't end up turning my room into a gym like I overheard her telling Dad back at our old house.

I sit there, lost in thought, when the curtains suddenly open. I'm so surprised that someone's there after two days of inactivity, that it takes me a few seconds to process what—or who—I'm looking at.

Framed in the window across from mine is a half-naked, super hot guy. He looks like he's either a senior or maybe a college freshman. He's wearing a pair of red plaid boxers, which ride low—really low—showing off a sexy six pack and a landing strip that's pointed south. My eyes followed it, and I feel a wave of heat rise up my neck.

My eyes quickly snap up and I catch the boy next door checking me out. I'm not the one who's half naked, but he still seems to be enjoy the view. Then, he notices that I'm staring right back, and his face breaks into a sexy grin.

He leans forward, biceps rippling and abs shifting, and slides his window open. My eyes rove over his body as he straightens back up and leans an arm against the window frame.

"I heard we got new neighbors, but no one told me one of them was hot," he says.

"Same," I breathe, though I mean the hot part, and not the part about having neighbors.

"Don't go anywhere, okay?" He waits for me to nod and then steps out of view. Then he's back before I can count to ten, wearing a pair of dark wash jeans he's yet to zip up. I stare rather pointedly at the small patch of red boxers that peeks out, but he doesn't seem to notice. Before I realize what he's doing, he slides out his window and climbs in through mine.

I can't help but let out a horrified shriek when he crosses over the gap of nothing between our two houses, and then a breath of relief when his bare feet hit my carpet.

"Don't worry, I do this all the time," he says, and I picture him climbing into some other girl's window, the way he just climbed into mine. I don't like it one bit, and my face must reflect that, because he quickly explains. "This house was vacant for close to a year. Sometimes I'd come in here when I was bored."

"Right." I nod like I already knew that, even though my parents had said absolutely nothing about our new house before we got here.

"I'm Lorn." The boy next door moves closer and extends a hand for me to shake.

"Abby," I whisper, placing my hand in his. His skin feels warm against mine, and I feel tingles when we touch. My eyes stay glued to his chest, and I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry.

"Did you draw that?" Lorn asks, picking up my sketchpad.

I nod, watching him as he examines the abandoned room I'd drawn, then the old lady, both framed by his curtains. He flips through the rest of my sketches for some time, clearly fascinated. Then he turns back to me.

"Do you have a boyfriend, Abby?"

It takes me a few seconds to tear my eyes away from his bare chest and focus on the question. My crush from back home suddenly seems insignificant next to Lorn. It's like I've always craved vanilla ice cream, and now someone's handed me a fudge brownie sundae. I lick my lips, taking in all the details that are Lorn, and then whisper, "No, I don't have a boyfriend."

"Good." Lorn smiles and leans in to kiss me.

◈ To kiss Lorn back or to not to kiss Lorn?

◉ Is lorn moving too fast? 

◈ Anyone want Abby's parents? I'm giving them away!

◉ Should I turn this into a book?