I'm not saying I know her. Because I don't, I mean, no one does. Everyone only knows faces of her. The people in her class know the smart girl. The strangers in the mall know the pretty girl. But me, I know her as the girl in the apple tree, her silhouette lit by streetlights, her silky voice in the darkness. Answering questions which only prove that mysteries aren't supposed to be solved. But I wonder who will get the pleasure of knowing her more than she knows herself, and why, and what meaning they share.