Middle school comes back to me in pieces. I remember where my locker was, my lunch number and I could probably walk my seventh-grade schedule from muscle memory. That’s about all, though. I don’t remember most of the teachers or classes I took, let alone the names or faces of any of the people I knew at the time, except for one.

She sat across from me at lunch every day, the two of us occupying the seats closest to the wall of whichever table had the fewest people sitting at it. I remember how she would sit with her nose in a book the whole lunch, picking at her celery, or how she would put down the book but still stubbornly stare at her meal while I told her about my day. She remains the quietest person I have ever come across in my life, and, like anyone who earns a superlative in my memory, she occupies a permanent place in a corner of my mind, nearly a decade later.

I was not much like the other kids — I never have and never will be — and in middle school that wasn’t always the greatest thing. I did not mind sitting alone, but that was more because I had never been welcomed to a lunch table. She did not seem to mind hearing about my day and my thoughts, so long as I respected her sparse responses.

Many other people did not respect her that much, although the exact details of what they would do to her have escaped me. For that matter, I do not recall how she wound up sitting with me in the first place. I knew she was listening, and she knew that I would not expect a peep, and we made that arrangement work for all of that year.

I thought it so fascinating how, when she did want to tell the classroom something, whether she was answering a question or offering her thoughts, we would go quiet and listen in a rare display of decorum. I remember how people would tease me, suggesting that I was romantically interested in her, but I insisted, truthfully, that I wasn’t. I was not privy to, or perhaps do not remember, whether others did something similar to her.

During seventh grade, the only year I knew her, I was taking a good number of classes at the high school. However, for administrative reasons, I would walk back to the middle school for lunch and a few classes thereafter. I had geometry and an American history class with her, if my memory is faithful. The seating in geometry class was assigned, but in American history she would sit with me fairly often. I swear I was a good student, but I would often play Tetris and Minesweeper in class, and occasionally so would she. This became our very sideways method of communication. We weren’t playing together; the only thing we were doing was acknowledging each other’s existence.

In the years that have passed, I have forgotten everyone else, and really anything we learned, but I can still picture the layout of our darkened classroom faintly in my head. I remember how her tolerance of me made me feel. It felt nice to talk with someone who did not mind if I was a little strange, even if she wasn’t a traditional conversation partner. I remember feeling relieved to see her there in her usual spot. I would often try to ask her about her day, feeling weird that I had spoken too much about myself, but if she didn’t say anything, I believed that meant her day was good. It is inscrutable to me whether she got what she wanted from my presence, whatever it was.

I remember what she had to say when I told her I was moving away to California, words which I will keep between us. It was the most she’d ever said to me in the time I knew her. I remember so little of that time of my life that it amazes me how clearly I remember her kindness, and the details surrounding our friendship. Without a voice to attribute to her, the objects, scenes and details of the time we spent together took up the space in my mind instead. Although many others since have treated me with respect and care, she stands out in my memory as one of the first, and the only person in that time.  

I was on my way back from my internship on the Green Line in Boston a few months ago, having just pulled into Copley station, headed toward Boston College. The usual tangle of people flooded around the train car, but since I had a seat, I could safely ignore it. When I looked up from my phone, I was surprised to see a familiar face. She looked strikingly similar to how she did back when I knew her, and given that she had already spotted me, I must look similar too. It was the way she occupied space that made me certain, because she had — and apparently still has — something foal-like about her. I wondered in disbelief to myself how long she’d been looking at me as I tried to process that our paths had crossed again. We were at Hynes Convention Center, and the doors were opening and we stared at each other for a second or two before she turned and got off. It seems that we both remember some things, and that is enough for me.