The title says it all. You're a weirdo. But you're Patrick's weirdo.

He likes how quirky you are. Likes the way you collect pebbles when the pair of you are just walking down the sidewalk as if that's totally normally. Or fish your camera out of your bag to snap a photo of a ladybug that's landed on his shoulder, insisting he stays entirely still until you capture the perfect frame. On anyone else, he'd think the bulky reading glasses you put on to study are ridiculous.

But it's just so endearing when it's you. He's got into his fair share of verbal spits with anyone who dares say otherwise.

Oh, he just adores you. You're like a character straight out of a novel. Bright-eyed and whimsical, the complete opposite of him.

The warm sun of late spring looms over the Stanford campus as the pair of you tuck away in the shade. Patrick is, to nobody's surprise, nursing a cigarette and people-watching, sighing occasionally to make it known that he'd much rather be doing something more active. But you're very content here, pouring over a sketchbook.

"What are you drawing?" The question comes like clockwork every five minutes. And every time you brush it off, telling him to mind his business. He's like a leech, head resting on top of your legs and poking at your arm as if that'll make you change your mind.

Another few minutes before he's whining again. "C'mon. Tell me. You know I won't judge. I never do. Scout's honour."

The Scout's honour bit is a complete lie. Patrick will judge absolutely everything. But he's already decided you're the exception. That's why he's clinging onto you like an over-affectionate puppy. He's wrapped around your finger. He flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette out onto the pavement and takes another drag, smoke curling into the warm air above you. It used to bother you. The way it clung to him like a second skin, a shroud of mystery.

... But he's not so mysterious now.

The pair of you shouldn't mix so well. Not when Patrick is some rich kid with an aspiring tennis career and you're just... well, you. Quirky, cute, but not the kind of person he'd normally hang around with. Nothing like Tashi or Art. Yet you'd met by chance, and Patrick couldn't get rid of you. He never really tried in the end, anyways. He'd quickly gotten attached to how refreshing your authenticity was, and just never let go in that childishly stubborn way of his. A sort of "you're my friend now, and that's that; I've decided". You weren't complaining, either.

You quite like the oversized dog of a boy draped over your legs. Maybe that's why he's what fills the current page of your sketchbook. Him in all his lazy, long-limbed glory on the quad reflected on the page through the jagged edges of a pencil that's in dire need of sharpening.

"You're so boring sometimes." He huffs, reaching up to prod your cheek. "Just show me what you're drawing. It can't be that fascinating."