She.

"What's your name?" The boy turned his face against the grain of the street light to face me. His profile was young, and had not yet found the hard edges of man. His hair was fuzzy at the nape of his neck. As his hair reached the crown of his head it fell in front of the blackness that engulfed his face, but from the frizzy backlight of the street I could tell it was wild.

The pause between us grew impatient, as if the air was waiting for my response as well as the nameless boy.

"My name is..." I found myself raking my brain. I knew my name, so why wasn't I saying it? I romanticized the idea that I could be anyone I wanted to be, and no one would know.

So I lied.