He was standing only a few steps away, my best friend, my best man. He used to be my only friend. I wouldn't give up the world for him. He helped me get through my teenage years. He helped me get through life.

We met when I was thirteen. He was in my art class. We were sitting next to each other in art when he glanced over at my drawing. He had such a confidence about him. I would never have been able to do that.
I would think of all the things that could go wrong.
What if the person notices, and accuses you of copying their work?

It was art for goodness sake! Why was I worried?

But you wouldn't have believed what he did next. He touched my hand. His hand was warm. He took my pencil and shaded in part of my drawing.

"I love it!",he had said, analysing my drawing. I was unable to say anything. No one had ever treated me like that before.
"T-thank you?". He didn't pause to speak more.
"It's amazing. I can't draw like you. Mine is a complete failure. Sorry for not introducing myself. Logan."
He held out his hand. I didn't react immediately.
"Don't worry, I don't bite."
I shook his hand.
"Oscar."
This time, he paused before talking.
"That's a nice name."
The bell rang. Logan grabbed his stuff and called after some other student leaving. He ran after him. I watched him leave. He was tall, but not muscular, and he looked way older than he was.
He had wavy blonde hair - I liked his hair. I kind of wanted to have hair like that.

Nobody had been kind to me that year before I met him. But then he had just left, after our art class, didn't even say goodbye.
Maybe he wasn't nice. I decided to just wait and see him reveal true colours.

The next day I saw him in the hallway. He was with the cool kids - the lot that bullied me.
I rushed past him. If he was friends with them, then he probably was just joking when he said he liked my art.

Probably wanted to make fun of me. 

He did look at me though, as I hurried past, but I tried to shrug it off. I kept walking towards my club, maths.
Don't laugh; I actually enjoyed maths. The teacher was nice. She was boring, but nice. She might have liked me because I was the only one who went.

When I entered the room, it was empty. She must be late, I thought. I took out the book of problems from below her desk and started solving an algebra problem.
I heard the door open. It was probably her. I spun around and put on my teacher voice.
"Miss Arbaz, what does the sign that looks like an exclamation mark mean?"

I immediately started to die inside. It wasn't her. It was him. The boy from art. He must have been pranking me then or something, following me into the classroom.

He laughed, and then came and sat down next to me.
"You actually like this type of stuff?"
I paused, not looking up from my problem.
"Maths?"
"Yes."
"I do."
He paused. "Are you mad at me?"
"If you're trying to be funny by talking to me, please just go back to your friends."
He stuttered.
"W-what do you mean?"
"I know what you're doing."
"Oscar, those aren't my friends. I have no friends. Those are the other kids from my support group."
"S-support group?"
"I'm in foster care. They make me go to that phony group because they think it will help my brain or something."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your fault. C'mon, let's get out of here."

He led me out of the room. He led me down the hallway. I paused before stepping out of the school gates. I hadn't done this before. It was school time. My parents would be furious. I hoped they wouldn't find out. He had a bike. It was quite broken, but very cool.

I wasn't allowed on bikes. My parents used to think I would hurt myself. They never let me do anything.

He drove the bike; I sat on the back, nearly falling off.
He took me to the church.
"Are you religious?" I asked. I was worried he might not be. My parents and I were, and they didn't like atheists.
"No! I don't want to waste my life!"

I crumbled when I heard that. "We aren't going to church, silly," he said, ruffling my scruffy hair. "We're going to my favourite spot in this boring town."
He led me round the back.

He kept walking until we got to a tree. It was the middle of winter, so there were no leaves on it, but it was still beautiful. He sat down. He gestured me to sit next to him.

"Look," he said, pointing out. The church was on a hill, and from this point I could see the whole town. It felt like I had the world in my hands. Some of the houses were covered in a thin layer of snow, and as we sat and talked for hours, the sky grew dark and glowing lights lit up the scene below. I forgot about everything I normally worry about. I was just in that moment. I looked up and noticed the stars, slits between here and heaven. At least what I thought was heaven. I've changed my mind now.

There's a word for that.

Ochiolism, it means n. the awareness of the smallness of your perspective, by which you couldn't possibly draw any meaningful conclusions at all, about the world or the past or the complexities of culture, because although your life is an epic and unrepeatable anecdote, it still only has a sample size of one, and may end up being the control for a much wilder experiment happening in the next room.

Now he's standing there, watching me. He's taller now, and more muscular. Almost handsome. He had a girlfriend. She left him. He didn't tell me why. I don't ask him about that. I know not to. There are some things you shouldn't question, no matter how much you want to know the answers. I have so many questions.

I'll just never get the answers.