This story is one of the November Writing Challenge entries chosen to be a featured story.

Every day—from kindergarten to eighth grade—I took the same route to school, and every day—from kindergarten to eighth grade—I saw this boy at the same bus stop.

His hair was a striking shade of red or orange, and it resembled a fire. I named this mischievous boy with the fire hair Adam. Why Adam? Simply because he looked like those four letters. Day after day after passing by this boy, I became curious and started wondering about him and his life, so I wrote a story about him.

I wrote such a story that I was convinced I knew this boy like I was his best friend. Adam was certainly the youngest of four older brothers, and perhaps he lived in their shadow. His older brothers were the stars of any and every sports team that you could think of; they were treasured by anyone and everyone. But Adam was undeniably lovable. His lean build never allowed him to be the MVP on any sports team, but he had his qualities that enthralled me. He definitely was a gifted musician and played an assortment of instruments, maybe bass guitar one day and violin the next. There was also this look on his face that told me of the waves crashing down on his life. There was a darkness to this boy, despite his bright red hair. He got made fun of at school and stood alone at the bus stop with earbuds in his ears to block out all the noise. He was frightened by the vast world, so he clung to the comforting chords that came out of his headphones. I know that Adam had a glorious sense of humor, one similar to mine. He definitely laughed at puns and made countless dad jokes.

I grew up with this boy and knew everything about him, even his favorite color (electric blue). Every day I watched him from the window of my car; glass and a few feet separated us. In a perfect world, I’ll run into him in a coffee shop and we’ll fall in love and live happily ever after. But this isn’t a perfect world. I changed schools and haven’t seen Adam since. Adam isn’t aware of my existence. He has no idea how many stories I made for him. He doesn’t know how he shaped my life. His name probably isn’t even Adam, and maybe his favorite color isn’t electric blue. Maybe he’ll grow and change the world, and maybe he won’t. No matter what, he’ll always remain Adam, the boy from the window.



Sophia Abig

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