Oliver

Oliver lingered a few feet away like he’d been trying to leave for the past five minutes and kept failing. His grip tightened around the strap of his backpack, eyes flicking up to you… then immediately down… then back again, like he couldn’t stop himself.

“…I have a question,” he said finally, voice already unsure. “Actually, multiple. They’re related. Probably.”

A pause. He frowned slightly, studying you a little too hard.

“Is your hair supposed to look… like it’s defying gravity in several directions at once? Because from a structural standpoint, it’s impressive, but also kind of looks like you lost a fight with a fan.”

He froze.

“…That sounded like an insult. I didn’t mean it as an insult. I meant it as an observation.”

Another pause. He adjusted his glasses, clearly spiraling a little.

“And the clothing—do you intentionally pick things that absorb the maximum amount of light? Because you’re almost… visually subtractive. Like a void. Not in a bad way,” he added quickly, wincing. “I think voids are… interesting. Scientifically.”

His eyes flicked back up to your face, then immediately away again.

“And the eyeliner—I’m still trying to understand that. It’s uneven. Not drastically, but enough that it looks like it was done under time constraints or emotional distress. Was it? Or is that part of the aesthetic? Because if it’s intentional, then I’m misreading it, which happens a lot.”

He exhaled, shoulders tensing.

“…I’m doing it again, aren’t I. Saying things that sound mean.”

A beat.

“I’m not trying to be mean. I just—don’t understand you. And when I don’t understand something, I usually ask questions, but apparently my questions sound like criticism, which is inefficient for making… positive social connections.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…You do look kind of cool, though. Statistically speaking. I think.”

He immediately looked horrified at himself.

“That sounded worse. I made it worse.”

Oliver didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until you moved.

Not even subtly staring—just… fully locked in, eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses like you were some kind of problem he was trying to solve. His brain was clearly running at full speed, picking apart every detail.

“…Why do you do that?” he muttered under his breath, not even realizing he’d spoken out loud.

Another second passed. Still staring.

“…No, seriously, the way you just—stood there. And the expression. And the outfit. It’s like everything you do is… coordinated, but also not? I can’t tell if there’s a pattern or if you’re just—”

He stopped. Blinked.

“…a fucking weirdo.”

Silence.

The words seemed to register about two full seconds too late. His eyes widened slightly, posture stiffening as the realization hit him all at once.

“I—” he started, then immediately stopped.

“…That sounded aggressive.”

He pushed his glasses up quickly, looking anywhere but at you now.

“I didn’t mean it like… an insult. I mean, it was an insult, but not—intentionally. I just don’t understand you, and my brain categorized it as ‘weird,’ which then—translated verbally without a filter.”

A pause. He risked a glance back at you, then immediately looked away again.

“…You’re not a bad kind of weird. There are classifications. I just haven’t figured yours out yet.”

Another pause

“…I should stop talking.”

Oliver was staring again.

Not even trying to hide it this time—just openly watching you like you were some kind of confusing equation he couldn’t solve. His eyes kept flicking down to your wrists, then back up to your face, then down again.

“…What's under all those bracelets?” he asked abruptly.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

His fingers brushed your wrist, clumsy and hesitant, like he wasn’t used to touching people at all—and then he gently tugged at your bracelets, pushing them aside just enough to—

He froze.

Cuts all across your wrist

“Oh.”

Silence dropped between you instantly.

Oliver let go like he’d just touched something he wasn’t supposed to, hands pulling back fast, shoulders tensing.

“…That was bad,” he said after a second, voice quieter. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He stared at the floor now, not at you.

“I didn’t think. I just… noticed a pattern—concealment, repetition, placement—and I wanted to confirm a hypothesis, which is not how you’re supposed to interact with a person.”

A pause. He swallowed.

“…I’m sorry.”

Another, longer pause.

“…You’re still a fucking weirdo, though,” he added under his breath, almost automatically—then immediately winced like he’d stepped on a landmine.

“…That was also poorly timed.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly spiraling again.

“I don’t mean ‘weirdo’ in a negative classification. I just—don’t understand you. And I keep trying to, and every time I try, I make it worse.”

A beat.

“…You can tell me to leave, if that would improve the situation.”

Oliver noticed it before he meant to.

He hadn’t even been paying attention to people—just walking, thinking, mentally reorganizing his schedule—until voices cut through in a way that didn’t match normal conversation patterns. Louder. Sharper. Repetitive.

He looked over.

You.

And… them.

He stopped a few feet away. Not close enough to be part of it. Not far enough to ignore it.

He just stood there.

Watching.

His brain started doing what it always did—cataloging. Tone of voice: hostile. Body language: invasive. Proximity: too close. Your posture: closed off. Statistically, it was a negative interaction. Objectively unpleasant.

He knew that.

He didn’t move.

His fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag as one of them laughed—too loud, too pointed. He watched your reaction instead of theirs, like that was the part that mattered. The way you held yourself. The way you didn’t say anything.

A flicker of something uncomfortable twisted in his chest.

He shifted his weight.

Still didn’t step in.

“…This is wrong,” he muttered under his breath, like stating it might somehow change the outcome.

It didn’t.

Another comment. Another laugh.

He looked down for a second, jaw tightening, then back up again almost immediately—like he couldn’t make himself look away either.

There were options. He knew that. Intervening was an option. Getting a teacher was an option. Creating a distraction—also an option.

He ran through them.

Did none of them.

Because what if he made it worse? What if he miscalculated? What if they redirected it at you more? Or at him? Or both?

So he stayed where he was.

Watching.

Not neutral. Not uncaring. Just… stuck.

By the time it ended—by the time they walked off like it was nothing—Oliver was still there, exactly where he’d been.

There was a long pause before he finally moved.

He stepped a little closer, stopping just within speaking distance, not quite looking at you.

“…I observed the interaction,” he said quietly, like that explained anything. “It was… statistically unfair.”

A beat.

“I didn’t intervene.”

Another pause. Longer.

“…I’m aware that was the incorrect response.”

His grip on his bag tightened again.

“I calculated multiple outcomes and chose none of them, which—logically—doesn’t make sense.”

He glanced at you briefly, then away.

“…I’m sorry.”

A small, tense shift.

“…You’re still a weirdo,” he added under his breath, softer this time. Not sharp. Not mocking.

Almost… familiar.

“…But that didn’t justify that.”