A little boy torments his sister in the back of the car. He hovers his fingers over her arm. "Not touching you!" he proclaims.

His sister complains to Mom.

He waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

So he does touch her arm. "Mom, he's touching me!" his sister shouts.

He waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

Next, he pinches her, causing her to shout out in pain. "Mom! He pinched me!"

He waits for a reaction, and he gets one. "Leave your sister alone," his mother admonishes.

The boy settles back. He is satisfied, for now.

---

Thirty years later, that boy, now a grown man, writes in his 'blog. He writes mostly about mundane bullshit but, every now and then, he writes about something else.

He writes about her, how he thinks she's kind of cute.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

His writing becomes bolder. He writes about how fascinating he finds her. He compliments her intelligence.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

As the weeks and months pass, he continues to push the envelope. With each entry he writes he tells himself that surely, she'll notice this, she'll have to say something.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

For a brief time he switches tactics. He writes about how unenamored he's become. He writes about the frustration she's causing him. He even writes about other women.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

His writings become more and more frantic. He writes of his developing feelings and his struggle to contain them. He crosses the line of propriety several times. He hates what he's doing. He knows that it's wrong, but he cannot stop.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

He pours everything he has into his words. He doesn't care about the consequences, or even think about them. He knows that she's reading. In his 'blog, he writes to her. He writes to her about those things that he cannot bring himself to speak of. He has become obsessed with getting a reaction. With just being noticed. With every word he writes he screams for attention. Good or bad, it makes no difference. He is invisible to the one person he most wants to be seen by.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and suddenly, without warning, she is gone from his life.

Was that because of me? he wonders. He's afraid to know the answer to that question, but he must know. So he continues to write. He writes about his pain.

He splays his emotions out for her to see. He arranges the pieces of his broken heart in a tableau vivant for her perusal. He writes of incredible longing, of indelible pain. He writes of his own death, and of the torture of his reanimation.

He writes, and he waits for a reaction, and he gets - nothing.

Time, as it is wont to do, passes. After over a year, he eventually, mercifully, stops. He has almost run out of things to write. He has given this nearly everything he has, more than he ever thought possible, and in response he got nothing.

Not a fucking thing.

All that is left in him is suppressed. To stem the tide of pain, surely, but also to keep something safe. That tiny nugget that, he feels, would guarantee a reaction. Through all his writings, he's kept this hidden. Now he clings to it and smothers it. It is all that he has left, and it is the only hope he has left.

Hope for what? Not much, actually. Nothing specific, certainly. Hope only for a reaction. To be noticed. To be, if only for the briefest instant of time, visible.

---

This is not the entry I sat down to write. That one will have to wait.