ON THE THIRD WEDNESDAY of every month, Oskar Smit sits uncomfortably in a slightly claustrophobic, incredibly dusty psychologist's office from 9:00am to 10:00am, lazily dragging his hands through a tray of kinetic sand and filling in worksheets about his day, week and month with multi-coloured pens. The room tends to stay silent for the whole hour, save for the thumping of Dr. Laurie's black ballet flat against the carpeted floor as she scribbles God knows what in her little notebook. Oskar likes to think she might draw the kind of doodles you would in a workbook whilst bored in high school; like stupid stick figures surrounded by crude words. The thought gets him through the hour.

He's never been entirely sure why he sits in that room or why Dr. Laurie lets him sit there at all. Maybe he enjoys the silence of someone else's presence or maybe the kinetic sand is a lot more fun that it actually looks.

"And that's time Oskar! Sixty minutes on the dot—that's three thousand, six hundred seconds." Dr. Laurie's chirpy voice cuts through the quiet as she taps the face of the slim silver watch on her left wrist and Oskar smiles tightly, the deep-set dimples on either side of his mouth showing. In the past five months, Dr. Laurie managed to discover the little quirks and rituals that make Oskar comfortable, be it starting and finishing the session in exactly sixty minutes or simply whistling to the tune of Don't You (Forget About Me) whenever his hands start to shake above the box of kinetic sand.

Oskar swings his legs over the side of the couch and slips his dark green high tops onto his feet, tying the laces in a double knot and standing up. He wipes imaginary dust from his thighs and straightens his loose grey hoodie across his chest. Dr. Laurie stays seated, the cool honey of her eyes tracking his tired movements; the tweaks and the twitches in his body, the pattern of his breathing. Only when Oskar lifts his backpack over his shoulder does she slip the lone ballet flat onto her right foot and stands with him, her short frame overshadowed by his tall, lanky figure.

"I will see you next month, Oskar. Take care, won't you?" She walks towards her office door and swings it open, stopping him with a wide-toothed grin. "And don't think I didn't notice you making sand towers halfway through the session." Dr. Laurie gives a small wink as Oskar ducks his head, the coating of a blush dusting his pale cheeks.

On his way out, he sends a quick nod to the receptionist who smiles softly at him, before rushing out of the building and onto the main road. Oskar quickly unclips the lock around his bike and available rack and embarks on the four minute and twenty-three second journey from Dr. Laurie's office building to his university.

The autumn morning is refreshing against his messy blonde hair, the dusty coloured locks flying in the wind. The air rushes over the skin of his face as he peddles steadily along the foot path, his body on autopilot as it motions through the same route he's taken since the start of the school year. He's always preferred the milder kind of sunshine, the sunny days with a slight nip in the air that can send a shiver down your spine if you forget a jumper. It's much more pleasant than riding in the sweltering summertime or really just existing in it at all.

The slow reverb of music flows through his earphones as he skids to a halt near the bike rack of his university, swinging his leg over and off it. Pulling his bike lock from the pocket of his backpack, he connects it through his bike and the curved bit of metal it now leans against. He swivels the number to the wrong pin, turns on his heel and heads for the Arts building of the esteemed St. Louis University.

Oskar seems to have this habit of arriving to almost anything he deems even slightly important in his life at least an hour early, waiting around in silence. For what, he still isn't entirely sure of yet.

Maybe he just enjoys the lack of anxious spiralling knowing that he is one hundred per cent where he is meant be, when he is meant to be there. Or maybe sitting outside before a lecture, with the breeze blowing in his hair and his tendency to observe the diverse range of people that loiter the university grounds, brings him a sense of peace and clarity—a quiet moment for him to continue understanding the terrifying world around him.

Whatever it is, Oskar is still trying to figure out.

There's a lunch table that sits no more than two metres away from a eucalyptus tree, the enormous botany casting a shadow over both the table and most of the surrounding grass under it. Oskar has never found it to be occupied by anyone other than himself. It might be due to the fact that the sun never seems to touch it and most often everyone enjoys the sun kissed heat on their skin.

But Oskar loves that table.

He sits down on one side, the park style bench chipping at the corners. He slips his backpack onto the seat beside him and pulls out his phone, skipping song after song until he lands on one he actually wants to listen to.

It's moments like these that Oskar, after countless evaluation, deemed his favourite. His secluded area under a cool shade, no matter the season, his earphones in as the world around him slowly fades into this tiny vortex of things that don't matter. This is where he experiences no fear, no shame, no urge to run away to places others won't find him.

The swish of the trees and the blowing of the wind flows past the music playing in his earphones as he reaches into his bag for his laptop. Oskar's first assignment is due in three days and all he had left running in the back of his mind was the stupid concluding paragraph to support a three-thousand-word essay on cultural theory and the history of screen production.

Back in high school, it took Oskar less than a full media class to know that he would become determined in film and screenwriting for the rest of his life. He enjoys having the power of creating something that could have an absurd amount of emotional effect on one, single human being. The idea of creating something fictitious and unattainable, based on something real and raw. He loves creating beautiful worlds generated from the crappy one he lives in.

He begins typing rapidly, the words jumbling in his mind before he deletes it. He repeats that for what seems like hours and with a final, annoyed huff, closes his laptop back down. He distracts himself by scrolling through his phone, replying to some questionable GIFs his sister had sent through, before slipping it back into his pocket and pulling out his sketchbook—a tactic used to ease his mind before stepping into class.

Oskar sketches and shades, erases and colours, turning a once boring white page into a simple, delicately designed landscape. He runs a quick hand through his hair as he watches time fly right passed him, the pencil in his hand scribbling back and forth faster and faster.

"Wow, you're good." A muffled voice cuts through his music so softly he thinks he might have imagined it. Oskar's eyes flick over the side of the table and he stiffens, a pair of Mary Jane's now in his eyeline. The quiet leaves, tossing him aside to deal with the person stepped far too close into his personal bubble.

Oskar whips his head up, pulling his ear phones out as his heart all but slows right down. With noise swimming in his head, he stares up wide eyed at who might be one of the most ethereal beings he's ever laid eyes on in his entire, measly life.

His jaw clenches and the girl tilts her head slightly, gnawing on her lower lip as she repeats, "I said, you're good." Oskar swallows roughly when she places herself on the seat opposite him—uninvited—and sips on a cherry Cola through a pink metal straw.

Her cropped magenta hair sits just below her jaw, a wispy fringe falling messily in choppy lengths over her forehead. A silver ring pierces her septum and Oskar stares into a pair of strikingly emerald green eyes, the girl seeming to capture a part of him without any intention of ever giving it back.

Oskar is scared shitless.

He stares back at her in silence, her bare face looking expectant as she winkles her nose. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat, taking a long sip from the glass bottle of soft drink. Oskar curls in on himself, a slight shake of his head catching her attention.

"I'll be honest with you, I thought you were cute and now I'm trying to be bold," she looks behind her shoulder at two girls huddled together, staring at them with smiles and words neither of them can hear. "So here I am. Lulu, Lulu Loveberry. Skittle?" She holds out a red bag of Skittles in what can only be her version of a handshake.

Oskar scratches the top of his head before casting his eyes down, swallowing the dry lump lodged somewhere in his throat. He fumbles with his fingers before looking up at Lulu, her hair splaying in the wind as she leans forward on her elbows, multicoloured bangs jingling obnoxiously on her wrists with chunky rings stacked on her fingers.

"Well, this certainly worked out a lot different in my head." She laughs nervously, a pink tint shining her cheeks in embarrassment.

Oskar shakes his head and waves his hands hastily and she perks back up. He makes an awkward gesture in front of his mouth, almost like he was telling her he has to vomit. Which frankly, he felt like he would do anyway.

She scrunches her eyebrows and stares at his hands. "You need to...puke?"

He blows raspberries and frowns, shaking his head once more. Oskar tears a small piece of paper from the back of his sketchbook and scribbles OSKAR in his messy scrawl. He quirks a small smile and hand hers the piece of paper, grabbing his backpack with one hand as he brings the book to his chest.

He pivots around and shuffles quickly towards his class, time catching up to him without even realising it. Oskar never loses track of time.

Sometimes, Oskar thinks that maybe it would be nice to introduce himself verbally to another person, share a laugh and make conversation. But what does it matter anyway? A pretty girl like Lulu wouldn't want to hang out with the likes of him.

He wouldn't even be able to ask her to if he tried and gosh, does he want to try.

But Oskar doesn't dwell on it too much. He walks into class and sits down in the second row from the back, fourth seat from the right and opens his laptop and notepad. He places a black and red pen parallel to the top of his book and a green highlighter vertical to its side. Oskar opens his essay document and continues sporadically typing, unsure whether the words make sense or not.

He had been so ridiculously immersed in his work that he almost misses the flash of pink in front of him, combined with the unique sweet smell of lavender and honey. Oskar flicks his gaze up. There, one row down and a few seats to his left sits the mysteriously magnificent Lulu Loveberry, a perfectly sculpted enigma. He stares shyly in her direction, his eyes shifting any time she looks toward the general vicinity of where he sits. He's not quite sure if she doesn't notice him or just chooses not to at all—not that he would ever blame her.

All Oskar knows, in that singular, defined moment, is that there is no chance in the world that he couldn't notice her.