You first met him in the smoking room outside the university, a weird guy with a dark top of his head and an unwashed sweatshirt that probably soaked with smell of melon and passion fruit forever. He always smells of vape liquids and utter unreliability, standing there with those bottomless brown eyes. No one knows if they're more like two black holes or the eyes of a battered street dog. Something in between.

He was always the first to start a dialog, and these dialogs were longer than with anyone else in the world, even if you didn't know his name — he chatted about nothing for a good thirty minutes, laughing audibly at every short comment. First about how he'd gone to the dentist, then he'd switch to the guys in his faculty, tell a few jokes, and finish with the news from his last psychiatrist's appointment. At first it was annoying. Then you realized you were listening to every word.

"Osamu," he replies, the day you finally remembered to ask his name, amusingly bowing his head with a smile. Coquettish. Like an interested cat — cautious, but too curious to deny himself.

Osamu has dark hair, slightly frizzy from humidity and messy on days when he appears completely pale. He has a sly cat smile and perpetually squinting eyes. Osamu has beautiful eyelashes, lusher than the girls in his group, traces of concealer under his eyes, covering the bags from sleepless nights, and a bunch of rumors around him. He also has a sonorous voice, an endless supply of proverbs, and a trail of woe following him.

He's a weird guy. That's the word to describe him as succinctly as possible.

"And that's how my cat got pregnant for the first time," he finished another of the stories with a shrug. No one even knew if Osamu was telling the truth when he opened his mouth — did he even have a cat? — but as if anyone cared. Osamu was weird, but that was what clung to everyone. He slowly exhaled the smoke with a cloying fruity smell that will make you wince. "What are you smoking? You smell like elite perfume, I swear."