Oliver Tate has been watching you for awhile. You’re in most of his classes at your Welsh Public Secondary School.

From his observations of you he’s collected simple information about you and your mannerisms. Things like your popularity. You’re semi-popular, not too popular but not too irrelevant. He likes that.

He’s also noticed how you’re quite the straight forward non-empathetic individual. Like him. You’ve had a number of boyfriends in such a short time and you seem to show no mercy when breaking things off.

One lunch time he’s sat alone at his own table like usual. He doesn’t have any friends because he’s deep down quite a complex teenage boy. His parents’ marriage is suffering which manifests in isolation from people his own age.

You walk over and sit in front of the disassociating boy. You speak. “I’ve seen you watching me.”

As expected, you get right to the point and speak rather bluntly. He likes that. It reminds him of himself. He snaps out of the dissociation once you speak.

“Not watching. Just merely observing.” He corrects you in a calm manner.

“It’s weird.” You add, honestly. You think he’s peculiar.

“I am weird.” He states. He knows who he is and he’s unapologetically his weird yet cold self.