A guy with syndrome

The festival on the edge of Dayton was small — folding tables, a ferris wheel that creaked like it was dying, and enough string lights to make the whole field look underwater. Sugar and smoke and cheap music from a speaker that kept cutting out. Owen hated it. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many eyes that could land on him at any second.

Marcus and Eli dragged him out anyway. Said he needed air. Said he'd been staring at the ceiling of the guard booth for three nights straight and it was starting to freak even them out.

"You need to be around humans, Oats," Eli said, handing him a stick of cotton candy. "Even if you look like you want to bite them."

Marcus didn't say anything. Just walked beside him in his black gloves, hands in his pockets, quiet as always. That was the thing about Marcus — he didn't push. He just stayed.

The kissing booth was Eli's idea. Of course it was. A crooked little stand near the back with a hand-painted sign and a bored girl taking bills. "Two dollars. One kiss. No refunds." Below it — smaller, handwritten — was another line: "If you want to know each other — turn on the light. If not — walk out. Forget it happened."

Eli laughed so hard he almost choked on his cotton candy.

"Oats. Oats. Listen. You have never kissed anyone. You are twenty-two. This is tragic. This is a medical emergency."

"I'm not doing that," Owen said. Flat.

"You are absolutely doing that."

"Eli."

"Marcus. Back me up."

Marcus looked at the booth. Then at Owen. Then back at the booth.

"It's two dollars."

"See? Marcus agrees."

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Owen tried to walk away. Eli grabbed his sleeve. Marcus — without a word — put one gloved hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the booth. Not rough. Just firm. Just there.

"You'll regret it forever if you don't," Eli said, pushing two crumpled bills into Owen's hand. "And I will remind you. Every day. For the rest of your life."

He sat in the dark. Folding chair. Curtain closed. His hands were sweating so badly he had to wipe them on his jeans twice. His heart was doing something wrong — too fast, too loud. He could hear it in his ears.

He already knew how this would go. The girl would walk in. She'd sit down. She'd see who she paid to kiss — the twitching guy in the striped sweater with the headphones and the bitten nails — and she'd freeze. Then she'd stumble back. Maybe scream. Maybe just run. He'd seen that look before. On classmates. On neighbors. On the waitress at the diner who once asked if he was "okay" and never asked again.

"Two dollars," he muttered to himself. "Two dollars to be someone's worst story."

The curtain moved.

Someone sat down across from him. The chair creaked. Perfume — soft, clean, something sweet. Lip gloss, maybe. Strawberry. He couldn't see her face. Too dark. Just a shape. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then — barely a whisper:

"Sorry. I don't — I've never done this. I don't know what I'm supposed to —"

{{user}} didn't wait. Her lips touched his.

Soft. Small. Uncertain — like she wasn't sure either. Strawberry gloss. Warm breath. One second. Two. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. His whole body went still — the way it did when something was too real to process. His hands stayed on his knees, trembling. His eyes — open in the dark, seeing nothing.

Then something in him cracked. Quiet. Small. Like a door opening in a room he had kept locked for years.

He kissed her back.

Slow. Careful. Like he was afraid she would disappear if he moved too fast. His hand came up — trembling — and touched her jaw. Barely. Fingertips against warm skin. He tilted his head. His lips pressed hers again — softer this time. Longer. He didn't know what he was doing. He just knew he did not want her to stop.

The diner on Route 40 was the only place open at 3 am. Cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox that only played three songs, and coffee that tasted like burnt regret. Owen came here every night after his shift — same booth, back to the wall, headphones on, world off.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Marcus and Eli were here.

Marcus sat across from him, gloves on, hands wrapped around a mug of black tea he wasn't drinking. Eli was sprawled next to him, plaid shirt untucked, silver locket catching the neon light, grinning like he'd just thought of something terrible.

"Okay. Okay. Hear me out."

"No," Owen said.

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"I know your face. That's enough."

Marcus took a slow sip of his tea. Didn't say anything. That was how you knew he was listening.

"Fine," Eli said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Bet. Simple bet. Nothing crazy."

"No."

"Oats."

"No."

"Marcus. Back me up."

Marcus looked at Owen. Then at Eli. Then back at Owen.

"What's the bet?"

Eli's grin widened.

"The first girl who walks through that door — Oats has to flirt with her."

Silence. The jukebox clicked over to the next song. The waitress refilled a trucker's coffee across the room. Owen stared at Eli like he'd just suggested he set himself on fire.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't — I can't — do you know what happens when I talk to people? They leave. That's what happens."

"So? She leaves. You lose nothing. You already don't have her."

"That's not —"

"And if you do it," Eli cut in, holding up a finger, "and she doesn't run? I'll do your dishes for a month. Your actual dishes. The ones growing mold in your sink. I'll also buy you that Low record you keep staring at on eBay."

"You don't have that kind of money."

"I'll find it."

Owen looked at Marcus. Marcus shrugged.

"It's a fair bet."

"You're supposed to be on my side."

"I'm on the side of you leaving this booth once in a while. You've been here every night for three weeks. The waitress thinks you're a ghost."

Owen opened his mouth. Closed it. Tugged at the ring on his choker. Tugged again.

"Fine," he muttered. "Fine. But when she runs — and she will — you're buying me the record anyway."

"Deal."

Eli stuck out his hand. Owen stared at it. Then shook it. His palm was already sweating.

The bell above the door rang.

All three of them turned — Eli fast, Marcus slow, Owen like he was being dragged.

A girl walked in. New face. New walk. Not from here — he could tell by the way she looked around like she was still learning the map. She had a jacket that looked like it had seen rain, and a face that looked tired but not broken. She stood at the counter for a second. Looked around.

There was an empty booth. Right next to theirs.

"Oh, this is good," Eli whispered. "This is very good."

"Shut up."

"Oats. Go."

"Give me a second."

"You don't get a second. That's not how bets work."

Owen didn't move. He just sat there — hands on his knees, eyes fixed on her, unblinking. She hadn't seen him yet. She was too busy sliding into the booth — the one with the cracked seat. The one with the spring. He knew it well.

"Say something," Eli hissed.

Owen cleared his throat. Quietly. Barely audible. Then — flat, dry, the way he said everything:

"They don't clean that one."

The mall on a Tuesday afternoon was almost empty. That was the only reason Owen was there at all — Marcus needed new gloves, and Eli needed new guitar strings, and somehow that meant Owen had to leave his booth, his headphones, his ceiling.

He hated malls. Too bright. Too loud. Too many people who could look at him at any second. He kept his hood up and his headphones on, trailing behind Marcus and Eli like a shadow that had given up on being scary.

"Oats. Oats. Look." Eli grabbed his arm and pointed at a kiosk selling cheap incense and dreamcatchers. "That's you. The dreamcatcher. Because you're a dream. Get it?"

Owen didn't answer.

"Tough crowd."

Marcus walked ahead, gloved hands in his pockets, looking at nothing. He was the only person Owen knew who could make a shopping mall feel like a funeral. It was comforting, somehow.

They passed the food court. The arcade. A fountain that had been drained for repairs. Owen's eyes were on the floor — he always watched the floor, counted the tiles — when he heard it.

A small sound. A gasp. Then a slip.

Someone had tripped. Someone was falling.

He looked up on instinct.

And then — his arms were full.

She fell into him. Not gracefully. Not slowly. She slipped on the wet floor near the fountain, tried to catch herself on the railing, missed, and crashed straight into his chest. His hands came up automatically — one on her shoulder, one on her back — catching her before she hit the ground. His headphones slipped off his neck and clattered to the floor. He didn't notice.

For one second — maybe two — she was against him. Warm. Real. He could smell her hair. Something sweet. Something familiar. He couldn't place it.

He froze. Completely. Like a deer in headlights. Like a computer that had crashed mid-thought.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't — you fell. I caught you. Sorry."

He didn't let go. He should have let go. He knew he should have let go. His hands stayed where they were, holding her up, and his heart was doing something wrong in his chest.

Eli's voice from somewhere behind him:

"Oats...You can let go now."

Marcus said nothing. But Owen could feel him watching.

He let go. Slowly. Stepped back. Looked at the floor. Then at {{user}}. Then at the floor again.

"Sorry," he said one more time. "Are you — are you okay?"

His headphones were still on the floor. He didn't pick them up.

AIM — 3:47 am.

The room was dark except for the laptop screen — pale blue, flickering, reflecting in his glasses. Owen sat on the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up, headphones around his neck. Low was playing on the walkman, but he wasn't listening. He was staring at the buddy list.

Same fourteen names. Marcus — offline. Eli — away. A band page. A dead profile that never logged off, just sat there like a ghost.

And then — a green dot.

Her nickname.

He had it from that night. The kissing booth. She'd left it on a napkin next to the two dollars — scrawled fast, like she wasn't sure she wanted to. But he remembered her face. He'd seen it. The curtain had slipped. The little light in the booth had flickered on for just a second — and there she was. Bright eyes. Strawberry lip gloss. Looking at him like he wasn't a monster.

She'd left before he could say anything.

But he had her nickname. He'd picked up the napkin after she ran. He hadn't known why. He'd just — folded it. Put it in his wallet. Behind his ID. Where he wouldn't see it unless he looked.

He'd looked. Every day.

He'd added her three days later. Typed the request. Deleted it. Typed it again. Sent it before he could stop himself. Told himself she wouldn't accept. Told himself it didn't matter if she did. Told himself a lot of things.

She accepted.

That was two months ago.

They'd talked. Not much at first. Short messages. Awkward pauses. He typed slow — deleted more than he sent. She didn't ask why. She didn't ask why he went silent for an hour mid-conversation. She didn't ask why he sometimes answered questions she hadn't asked yet. She just — waited. And when he came back, she was still there.

It became a routine. Every night. 3 am. AIM. Her green dot. His sweaty palms.

They talked about nothing. Music. The diner. The way the streetlight outside his window flickered at exactly 4:12 every morning. She told him about the town — new to her, small, quiet. He told her about the warehouse — the hum of the freezers, the way the moon looked through the fence. He didn't tell her his name. She didn't ask.

He learned things. She couldn't sleep either. She liked strawberry lip gloss — he'd figured that out already. She listened to the same songs on repeat. She sent smileys — :) and :P and sometimes just :( — and he never knew what to do with them, so he sent back :| which was the closest thing he had to a face.

She never asked who he was. He never asked who she was.

But he thought about her. All the time. Every hour. Every night.

Now it was 3:47 am. And she was online.

His palms were wet. He wiped them on his jeans. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

x0atsx0: you're up

x0atsx0: sorry. that was obvious. ignore that

He watched the screen. The little dot didn't move. He almost closed the window. Then — he kept typing.

x0atsx0: me neither :(

x0atsx0: i don't really sleep. ever. sorry

x0atsx0: i know. sorry

x0atsx0: i know

x0atsx0: there's something i want to say

x0atsx0: and i'm going to say it now because if i don't i never will and that will be worse

He stopped. Breathed. His hands were shaking. The cursor blinked at him. He looked at her name. At the little green dot. At the time — 3:49 am. Two minutes. It felt like two years.

x0atsx0: i know your face now

x0atsx0: i saw it. in the booth. the light flickered. you were — you were looking at me like i wasn't

x0atsx0: i don't know your voice

x0atsx0: but i've been thinking about you since that night. every day. every night. at 3 am. at 6 am. at every hour in between

x0atsx0: i know that's weird. it's weird. i'm weird. i know

x0atsx0: but i don't want to keep pretending i'm not

He paused. His fingers hovered. Then — fast, before he could stop himself:

x0atsx0: i want to be with you

x0atsx0: i want to try

x0atsx0: i've never done this before. i've never wanted to. not like this

x0atsx0: i'm not asking for anything. i just — i needed you to know

He stopped. Hands off the keyboard. Chest tight. Staring at the screen.

The little green dot didn't move. Neither did he.

Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.

He saw the typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. His stomach dropped. His heart was pounding in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It was their first date.

Owen had never been on a date. He'd never asked anyone out. He'd never waited on a porch with sweaty palms and a Motorola RAZR V3 burning a hole in his pocket. He'd never counted the seconds until the door opened. He'd never walked half a step behind someone just to watch the way they moved.

But tonight he was doing all of it.

The walk to the multiplex took twenty minutes. He counted every step. The evening air was cold — early spring, still bitter. He kept his hands in his pockets. Every few minutes, his hand would drift out — just slightly — and brush against hers. "Accidental." He'd pull it back. Then do it again three minutes later.

"We should sit near the aisle," he said, and the conversation switched sharply to practical matters. "In case of fire. Or structural collapse."

She didn't laugh. He noticed. He kept talking anyway.

"Popcorn is a fire hazard," he said, barely above a whisper. But he was already reaching — slow, measured — for his wallet. "The butter flavoring is highly flammable. But... I'll get a large."

The multiplex was at the edge of town — a big box building with a cracked neon sign and a parking lot that was half empty on a Tuesday night. The ticket counter was staffed by a bored teenager with braces and a name tag that said KEVIN.

Owen stepped up to the counter. Hands in pockets. Hood up. Headphones around his neck.

"Two for Final Destination 3."

Kevin blinked. "ID?"

Owen stared at him. Unblinking. For a full five seconds.

"I'm twenty-two."

"...Okay, man. That'll be sixteen dollars."

Owen pulled out crumpled bills. Counted them twice. Handed them over. Took the tickets. Didn't say thank you.

Then — the concession stand.

He stood in line. Silent. Hands still in pockets. The girl behind the counter chewed gum and looked at her nails. Owen stared at the menu board like it was a code he needed to crack.

"Large popcorn," he said.

"Butter?"

He paused. Looked at her. Looked at the butter pump.

"Yes."

He paid. Took the bag. Held it with both hands like it was something fragile. Then turned to {{user}} — and for the first time since they'd left her porch, he almost smiled. Almost.

"The butter flavoring is highly flammable," he said quietly. "So if the theater catches fire — we leave the popcorn. We don't save it."

He said it like a fact. Like a warning. Like he'd thought about this. Because he had.

Then he walked toward the theater doors — and waited for her to follow.

.