"So, how was your date?" Lucy asked, scooting through my bedroom door before I could get it closed. I'd been hoping to jump onto the computer, but it looked like that wasn't happening now. Not yet, anyway.

I sank onto my bed, tossing my bag into the corner. There was probably some homework in there that needed to be done, but I would deal with it later. "It wasn't a date," I mumbled, shrugging out of my jacket. "It was just…hanging out."

Lucy wasn't having any of it. "Uh huh. And was there anyone else there?"

Since I didn't really want to answer that question – or any that I knew would follow, I threw her a stern glare and nodded towards the door. "Okay, brat. I have homework to do. And it wasn't a date."

She scoffed, but she jumped to her feet. "Sure it wasn't. Maybe not for you. But I bet it was for him!"

She darted out the door seconds before my pillow hit the wall with a soft thump that belied how emphatically I didn't want to continue this conversation. Because the truth was, I suspected she was right. I'd suspected it earlier that evening, picking at my cheesy fries as I pretended to listen to Kevin as he regaled me with a story that sounded just a little too far-fetched to be true.

The whole time, I'd been thinking how I'd rather be there with someone else. And I didn't even know his name.

I knew I was being a little ridiculous, but that didn't stop me from locking the bedroom door and booting up the chat room on my computer. Or the smile I felt tug at the corners of my mouth when I saw he was there.

SmallvilleGuy: Hey! I wasn't sure if I'd missed you. Did you have work at the paper?

I wasn't sure how to respond. On the one hand, I wanted to tell him about my maybe-date, but I didn't want to make it sound like I was trying to make him jealous. But who was to say he would even be jealous, anyway? It was entirely possible I was over-thinking this situation way more than necessary.

"Oh, don't be an idiot, Lois. Like he's really going to care," I chided myself as I typed in a response.

SkepticGirl1: I wish. I actually had a date. Maybe. I'm not sure. Lucy thinks it was a date.

SmallvilleGuy: Oh.

A long moment passed, during which I tried to figure out how to take his monosyllabic response. Then he typed some more.

SmallvilleGuy: LUCY thinks it was a date? But you're not sure?

SkepticGirl1: Well…not really. I thought a bunch of us were going to hang out but then…we didn't? So it was just him and me and the way he was acting…I don't know; it's hard to explain.

SmallvilleGuy: Oh.

There it was again. Those two letters didn't tell me lot more this time around. Was it wrong that, even though I knew it would be wrong to try to make him jealous, I'd still kind of hoped that he would be? The thing was, I was pretty sure if I found out he'd gone on a date (or maybe-date), I'd probably feel a little jealous. Was it terrible that a part of me had hoped that he would feel the same way about me?

Then again, I didn't really know that he didn't. His "oh" could mean he was a little jealous. Or it could mean that he found my general lack of love life and maybe-date incredibly boring. I certainly did.

I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, wishing it could tell me everything I wanted to know about the guy who had fallen silent on the other side of the chat room. Since it didn't seem inclined to do so, I asked the same question I always did.

SkepticGirl1: I have to run. I have a MOUNTAIN of homework. Tell me who you are?

SmallvilleGuy: You know I can't. I would if I could.

I knew he always said that. I even believed it on occasion. But sometimes I couldn't help but wonder. Why couldn't he tell me who he was, even after all this time? What secret could be so horrible that he had to guard it so closely?

Or is it just that he really didn't want to tell me? Maybe I didn't mean as much to him as he meant to me. Not that I could really define what that was, exactly. But maybe he just didn't trust me with the truth.

A dozen "maybes" came to mind – each more depressing than the last. I couldn't just leave things like that. Maybe he didn't trust me with his name, but I had to know if I meant something to him – something more.

SkepticGirl1: So…tell me a secret. Something you've never told anyone.

My hands hovered over the keys as I mentally debated whether to type more. In the end, I discovered that there were many kinds of bravery in this world. I could stand up to psychic bullying and would-be criminal masterminds…but I couldn't type the words to ask the guy on the other side of the screen how he felt about me.

Sighing in frustration at my own cowardice, I hit return and sent the message that I was afraid still hinted too much at my feelings. I stared at the computer and I could tell that he was typing something, but no message came through. I tried not to count the seconds as I waited for a response. One minute passed. Then two. He had stopped typing, now, and still no message from the other side.

Feeling dejected, disgusted at myself for both the feelings that had prompted my impulsive request and my disappointment at the answer – or non-answer, which in this case was the same thing – I took a deep breath and typed quickly.

SkepticGirl1: You know what? Forget about it. It was a stupid thing to ask.

Then, before he could respond, I snapped my laptop closed. I knew what I needed to know; I didn't need to see his relief at being let off the hook. Although my heart felt oddly heavy in my chest at that moment, I tried to pretend like this revelation didn't matter.

I wanted to keep my friendship with him – such as it was. He'd become a really important part of my life, and I didn't want to lose that. But could I really go back to talking to him as I had been doing, opening myself up to him when I knew I was never going to mean as much to him?

I didn't think I could.

For the rest of the night, I tried to focus on homework. A four-page essay on the socioeconomic impact of the Cold War on American society would normally have me wanting to beat my head against a desk. Now, it was a welcome distraction. Well, one good thing might come out of my heartache, at least. My grade in U.S. History might get a bit of a boost. Of course, it was equally possible that my teacher would conclude I should give as much attention to all of my assignments, so it could also backfire.

I tried not to think about SmallvilleGuy as I ate dinner, watched a movie with Lucy (ducking more of her questions until she got sick of hounding me), got ready for bed. But he was never far from my thoughts. I couldn't keep trying to ignore the obvious. His complete lack of response hadn't been what I'd hoped for, but it was a reality I had to accept.

I turned off my bedroom lights and locked the door. Then I booted up my computer and headed for our secret chat room. As the screen loaded, I squared my shoulders, resolved to do what needed to be done.

I didn't want to stop talking to him; he meant too much to me for that. But I clearly had to get my head on straight before we continued with our "friendship." I wanted us to still talk; at the very least, he was a good sounding-board and he'd gotten me out of a pinch a time or two. I just couldn't let myself continue to get hurt by entertaining feelings that were never going to be returned.

I would go on our chat room. Tell him things were crazy at home and I'd be off the computer for a few days. Then take that time to put my crazy infatuation behind me and put him very firmly in the "just friends and that's all I ever want us to be" column.

It was a good plan. Not a great plan. But a good one.

But then the screen loaded and I saw the message he'd left for me while I was gone.

SmallvilleGuy: My secret is that I think you're amazing. You're always completely yourself, and that is something I can never be. I can't tell you why I feel like an outsider a lot of the time, but you never make me feel that way. You make me feel like I'm not so alone.

I stared at the message, willing myself to remember every line. The top-secret nature of our communication meant that I couldn't keep a log of his message, but I never wanted to forget these words. Maybe from someone else, these words wouldn't seem like such a deep, heartfelt confession, but coming from him, I knew that they were.

He'd logged off, so, once I was certain I'd committed his message to memory, I typed a short response to him, closed the computer, and went to bed with a smile on my face.

SkepticGirl1: You make me feel like I'm not so alone, too.

I still didn't really know what I meant to him, exactly. But, then again, I hadn't entirely decided what he meant to me. At any rate, whatever his secrets, I believed that it wasn't just me. I meant something to him. Maybe even something like what he meant to me – I could hope so, at least.

I knew that at some point, I'd need more, but for now…it was enough.