Some people can't understand how lucky I am.

I've had so much good fortune in my life, sometimes it boggles my mind. It boggles other people's minds, too, but it boggles them for a completely different reason. They are boggled because I "think" I'm fortunate. They just don't get it. No one can see past a five-year-old sweater and a skirt that has maybe had a little too much wear-and-tear, or the holes in my shoes. No one ever listens to what I have to say. Two, maybe three, sentences in they think they have the entire story. I've been on the streets since birth, I've spent my life moving from town to town wherever the wind (pitying bus drivers) take me, I've had to steal and cheat and lie, oh don't get anywhere near me, I'm probably diseased. Just pity me from a safe distance, send money to charity from the comfort of your porcelain houses, that's more than enough.

No, actually, it is. Though I often find most people donate for selfish reasons, it is more than most people are capable of. And maybe the reasons don't matter as much when I just want a nice, hot meal. Okay, so it's not that hot. I'm lucky to have any food at all.

But then there are those people who can't afford to fuel a far off cause. Instead, they choose to see it up close, and mold it with their own two hands. Though I'm often so thankful to have the food that washes up on the seedy shores of each soup kitchen I pass through, I never forget who's behind the scenes, making everything possible for me. I'm lucky to have such wonderful people on my side.

Some of them stand out to me. It could be a server who fills my bowl with an extra scoop and shakes my hand, unafraid. (Her name was Martha and when she took her hand away, there was a ten dollar bill in my palm.) It could be when a lackluster server brings me my dish and there are fluffy pancakes decorated with syrup hearts. (I asked around and the cook's name was Josh. Normally, it wasn't a thing they did, but apparently "when Josh gets in the kitchen, there's no stopping him.") It could be when a lackluster server brings me a lackluster dish and I notice that the plate itself is shining it's so clean and I thank God for such a devoted volunteer, even if their job seemingly isn't that important. Things like that just warm my heart.

But then I got to the west coast. I started on this long, long journey in the east coast. It was the biggest — maybe even the only — milestone of my entire life. I'm talking miles and miles and miles milestone. That's how far I've walked, trudged, hitchhiked, ran, and train-hopped for eleven solid years.

And when I'm there, I think I'll celebrate with a nice dinner at the locale soup kitchen.

I'm a bit disappointed by the chipped-paint-and-sagging-wood looks of it, but I know better than anyone the in doesn't always match the out.

When a server brings me my dish, I know it's a birthday gift, plain and simple. I always get birthday gifts around March, though I couldn't tell you the exact date. I know it's my birthday when a whole pack of deer follow me side by side while I'm walking through the woods. I know it's my birthday when a bus driver says I can be taken over 90 miles in a favorable direction. I know it's my birthday when it's sunset and raining lightly, because that's my favorite thing in the whole world. The sun makes tiny rainbows in every drop of rain, and the sunset drips onto pavement because of the damp mirror those delicate drops make. And it's really rare, so I know it's a gift. I know it's my birthday on a day like today. My stomach's anxious growling sounds like an angel's voice, the ratty, plastic chair feels like satin, and the swinging, naked light bulb feels like a warm ray of golden sun against my skin.

The server is just the sweetest thing. He gives a little jovial bow and mutters something like, "Your majesty," before setting the dish before me and pantomimes taking off a silver covering. He could be joking, or making fun of me, but at least he's making fun and that just brings a light to my eyes.

I give a bit of a gasp at the actual dish itself.

It's pizza. Gourmet pizza with golden, flakey, cheese-filled crust and shredded green herbs I don't even know the name of and it's baked with a variety of cheeses, those of which I also don't know the names of. It's like the kind you see on billboards advertising a sophisticated dining experience at your local… Okay, so I don't know the name of any fancy shmancy restaurants. But I know a piece of art when I see one, and this belongs in an art gallery next to… Okay, so I also don't know any famous paintings. Fill in the blank, will ya.

And then the plate is immaculately clean. The pizza is mirrored on its surface like liquefied trees reflecting against a lake. Or like when it lightly rains at sunset and the puddles reflect the oranges and pinks and yellows of the sky. It's like countless birthday presents before, except not only is it beautiful, but I get to eat it. That is, if I ever stop ogling at it.

And then I remember the cook and the dishwasher and the server and my heart is smoldering from the heat of their love, inadvertent though it may be. I feel like weeping and laughing at the same time. Maybe this is some blissful sort of hysteria.

The server is still there, as I smile brightly and release an inaudible giggle through my teeth, but I don't know it until he coughs.

When I look up at him, he freezes a bit. Alright, yeah, I know my eyes must be as big and clear as the perfectly cleansed dish, and that might be strange to him, and I might have dirt caked on every inch of my body. So his reaction is understandable.

Mine is not.

"So, um, where are you from?" he asks, trying to make conversation. I can see it in his fiery emerald eyes that he does really care, and does really want to know, and is still waiting for a good response from me.

I just stare at him blankly. I'm too busy thinking about how lucky I am.

"Can I at least get a name?"

I can't form a coherent reply.

Not because I'm still dumbstruck or because he's the first person to ever ask for my name, though both of those are mildly true, but because I'm not sure what to tell him.

When I was growing up, I was called Girl. Hey, Girl, can you pick that up for me? Girl, what did I say about the neighbors? Girl, I need some time alone. You mind waiting out back, Girl? What did you do when I was gone, Girl? I had nicknames besides Girl. I wish I could say they were used affectionately. But it's better than being called Poor Girl, which is what people tend to call me when they find me in their backyard trying to take a sprinkler-shower. Actually, it's more an official title with "The" at the beginning. Like the president, or the Terminator. The Poor Girl. I found her sleeping next to Sparky on the porch, The Poor Girl, she probably has nowhere else to go. No one really tries to get my consent on these things. Just change my name without my okay, you know what, that's fine. You can call me The Poor Girl, or just Girl for short, but one day, I'm going to be known as The Lucky Girl. Because someone will finally hear what I have to say, and they'll understand why I'm so lucky. They'll finally get it.

"I…" It leaves my mouth without my consent, too. He was walking away hesitantly when I finally said it, and I guess it was because something inside my brain went off, telling me if I didn't reply, I could miss my chance to thank the workers here.

"So you can talk! I knew there was some chatter in there. Do I finally get a name?"

Everything I thought I was going to say just disappeared. I looked down.

"Uh…right, not a talker, are you?" he gives a sly smile, "Challenge accepted."

He pulls up a chair and sits next to me. I guess he's not too worried about other charity cases, considering there are no others to serve in the hollow soup kitchen.

"You seem a bit young to need a soup kitchen. I'm guessing the parents kicked you out, you rebelled too far or maybe you even… Alright, the reason's none of my business, I suppose. You're not talking that much, so I'm guessing whatever happened to land you on the streets was pretty traumatic."

He hesitates a moment because of the soft, downward curve of my lips.

"Am I right?"

No one ever makes assumptions to my face, and they certainly never ask if they're right, so, yes, I am a bit surprised. I can at least shake my head, though, since my shock is just about used up by this point.

"I..." he manages, raking his fingers through his red locks.

I soundlessly giggle.

He looks at me again, one straight eyebrow and one slanted, a slow smirk manifesting.

"I got a smile, I think. But this really isn't my territory. Why don't you get started on that and I'll go get the expert." With that, he was off, and I was left with an edible masterpiece all to myself.

It was the most I've ever eaten in one sitting, and it tasted as good as it looked and smelled — maybe even better. Of course, there was a lot of grease, but somehow it seemed…refined. Like how some people think fish eggs are refined. I, however, was not when "the expert" came.

He started out as a flicker. The entrance to the kitchen was really far from the table I was seated at, so I don't think he noticed me exactly. The server spoke with his hands vibrantly once he came out, and immediately his "expert" tried to walk back into the kitchen.

So maybe he did notice me.

But the redhead didn't seem so easy to deter, and guided him with two hands on his shoulders toward my direction. The expert yelled something I could only make out as garbled obscenities and tore off the alabaster apron, shoving it into the server's hands.

"Alright, well, I lied. This is my friend, Roxas, and he's no expert…" the "t" seemed to last forever, but then he added quickly, "…at talking to girls, now you two kids have fun!"

Roxas yelled something over his shoulder as the redhead ran back to the kitchen.

Then he studied me for a moment and I just froze. His eyes were harsh and analytical, and quite honestly, I was scared out of my mind. Oh, yeah, and that "refined" grease didn't look so refined dripping from my chin.

But then his eyes went soft and I physically relaxed, though it was indistinct when I tensed in the first place. He pulled the chair the server had sat in and put his hands on the table.

"So, what brings you here? We don't usually get many…um, patrons, I guess you could say."

I couldn't help myself from laughing.

Albeit, soundlessly.

"Um. Where did you come from?"

I shrugged.

"Wow, you really are a tough one."

I furrowed my brows.

"No, no, I didn't mean anything by it, I just — Axel told you I was no expert, didn't he?"

I nod slowly.

"Yeah, um, I'm not going to try and get you to talk if you don't want to, I… I'll just be going then…" he stood up and turned rapidly. My brain went into alert mode again.

"It's good."

"Huh?" he stopped.

"The pizza. It tastes like art."

Well, that certainly could've been worded better.

He laughed, sitting back down, "You think so?"

I nodded with a wide closed smile.

"I go to a culinary school a couple miles from here. Cooking at a soup kitchen helps my resume."

I don't buy that as his main reason. His eyes are wary, but they're caring, too.

"What?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, come on." His loose smile fell off his face and the judgment in his eyes was back, but this time, it seemed different. I'm not sure what was going through his head.

"You don't like people to assume things, do you?"

I froze.

"But you're okay with that. It's better than the alternative."

I stood up.

He did too.

"You never correct them, because then you'd have to tell them the truth."

I started toward the door.

He followed.

"You keep quiet because you don't want anyone to see what you see. Yes, you'd like to express your opinion, but you're wary because then what you have won't be yours anymore. The only thing you truly have is your fresh take on the world. And you're torn. You want people to know, but you don't want to share. You want someone to acknowledge your existence, to tell you that you're still real, but you don't want to get close enough to someone to get that recognition. You pretend to be ignorant, but you're more comfortable when people make their assumptions and are done with you. It's a big relief, except you can't really feel that relief because you've been telling yourself for so long that you don't want them to assume."

Once outside, I started to pick up the pace, but he grabbed my hand.

"Wait!"

For some reason, I did.

"I…"

That probably would've made me laugh a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to — just, can we start over?"

I stared blankly up at him.

"Hi, my name is Roxas Strife," he stuck out his hand stiffly, "and you are…?"

"I'm nobody." I breathed before running as fast as I could away from the expert Roxas and into the inky night.