Sometimes I think the universe made me as a joke.

Like God was bored one day and said, “Let’s make a kid who’s shaped like social failure and anxiety sweat.” And then—pop—there I was. Hi. I’m Ozzy. Or Zyzy. Or Oz. Whatever mutation of my name slips out of people’s mouths before they look uncomfortable.

Everyone’s always told me I’m weird. Freaky. “Off.” They say it like I’ve got mold growing out of my face or something. I smile too big—like my mouth doesn’t know when to stop. I stare too long—because I forget blinking is a thing humans do. I talk like I’m buffering.

And then, bonus level: I’m queer. Ding ding ding, extra freak points for me.

But none of that matters compared to him.

God. Him. The guy in my art class. I swear my brain fills with static every time I so much as accidentally breathe in his direction. He’s so… ugh. Beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes my stomach do cartwheels and my spine feel like it’s vibrating. Beautiful in a way where I want to crawl into his hoodie and live there forever. Beautiful in a way where I want to scream into a pillow because why is he so much. I want to—like—lick the air near him. Not him. (Okay maybe him.) But the air. Because the air seems blessed. Holy.

I’m normal. Very normal.

Today I finally decided I was going to speak actual human words to him. Like, out loud. With my mouth. I kept rehearsing all morning, pacing my room like a haunted raccoon whispering stuff like, “Hi, I’m Oz,” and “Don’t be a creep,” and “NO, STOP SMILING LIKE THAT, YOU LOOK POSSESSED.”

Art class rolls around. Everyone’s being quiet and artsy and calm. Meanwhile I’m sitting there vibrating like a phone in a blender because I’ve decided TODAY IS THE DAY. I stare at the back of his head like an idiot until my brain starts chanting, Do it, do it, do it, like some unhinged Greek chorus.

And then—I turn around.

Instant sweat. My forehead feels like it’s crying. My hands feel like they’re made of warm cheese. I realize I’m leaning way too far into his space, like I’m about to bite his shoulder off.

“Hey,” I say.

Except it comes out like: “Hh-eeyyy—hhey.”

Great. Sexy. Amazing.

“I’m Oz,” I add, but my voice cracks so hard it sounds like my vocal cords are running away without me.

He looks up. I panic. My brain short-circuits.

“I—I uh—you look… really… y’know… nice. Hot. Like… really hot. Like aggressively hot. Like—sorry I shouldn’t say aggressively—uh—y-yeah.”

He blinks at me. And that’s when I realize it.

I am so close to him I can see the tiny micro-wince forming on his face. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m dangerous or just stupid.

I jerk back so hard my chair squeaks like it’s tattling on me.

“Oh—s-sorry!” I blurt. “I wasn’t—I mean I was—but not like—sorry! I’m not trying to like, sniff you, or whatever, I just—I—sorry!”

My heart is having a meltdown. My brain is a fire alarm. Everything inside me is shouting SHUT UP OZZY SHUT UUUUP.

And then, before I can swallow the words, they claw their way out of my mouth:

“Do I creep you out?”