Thursdays, like Mondays and Tuesdays, are very much uneventful, but on Friday I have my psychiatrist's appointment. These used to serve a purpose. I would cry and beg my psychiatrist to do something to make it better, and dump all the drama I couldn't dump on my mum on my psychiatrist for an hour. Eventually, though, I gave up on that, or I grew out of it, or I got everything out of it I could get. Something. But I don't do that anymore, because she says she can't fix it, and she gives me sympathy face when I cry, and she tells me to take my medication. Very Important.

Today, my mum stays outside in the corridor while I wait for the psychiatrist, because she has a work phone call, and she asked me if I minded waiting alone and I said no. I'm not alone, though, because the receptionist is here, and because there is a boy a few seats down from me who is rubbing his temple like he has a headache and trying to read an old copy of Reader's Digest. I think he looks up when I sit down, but I'm not paying attention to him, because I'm too busy staring at the dog in a bowler hat in front of me. I think it's an Irish Wolfhound. If it were real, it would be an Irish Wolfhound.

The Bowler Hat Dog lets its mouth drop slowly open until it's just hanging there, slack, and I think maybe it's going to start drooling soon but it doesn't, not unless the green stuff dripping out of the corner of its mouth is what constitutes as drool for Bowler Hat Dogs. Green slime with yellow chunks... I make a face. I can't help it.

"Are you alright?"

My head snaps away from the dog and towards the boy. Right. You're not alone, Andrew. Stop being weird. "Yes."

He smiles, and he has a nice smile, and it looks genuine and not the sort people give me because I'm crazy, and you should be nice and smile at the crazy guy. Just a smile, because people smile at people, because it's nice.

"Okay," he says, holding my gaze and holding his smile for a few seconds longer, like he's waiting to see if I'm going to continue the conversation, but when I don't he looks back down at his Reader's Digest and I find myself feeling a little disappointed.

I'm not much good at starting conversations. Or at keeping them going. I'm not very good with people in general, actually, and I'm presently very out of practice when it comes to general socialisation. But I try anyway, because he smiled at me and it was nice.

"Are you alright?" I ask, and he looks up again, and he looks confused, and of course he does because I forgot to clarify. "You, um... you were rubbing your head before. Like maybe you had a headache."

"Oh!" he says, and he puts down his Reader's Digest, and now I'm getting his full attention. "Yeah, I do. I get them a lot when I'm around people."

He's a pretty interesting looking person. Not odd looking, not really, just interesting. He's wearing a jacket and it has a bunch of those iron on patches on it. He must have done it himself, or someone must have done it themselves, because it's all a bit weird. There doesn't seem to be any particular theme to the patches, either - a pirate flag, musical notes, a little dog, an alien... It looks like he just went to one of those craft stores and grabbed a handful of the things without looking. I like it.

I like his hair, too. Dark blonde and down to his shoulders and kind of messy, but it works for him, and long hair doesn't work too well on a lot of guys. Jelly bracelets around one wrist...

I realise that I've just been looking him over for at least half a minute, and that is really embarrassing because while most people expect me to be crazy, this guy does not - yet - even if I did meet him while waiting to see the psychiatrist. He is, too, isn't he, and you don't have to really be crazy to see one, do you? Some people just have problems, little problems, and they just need to talk. So he probably isn't crazy, and I'd really rather he didn't think I was crazy, but I've not yet gotten further than actually making eye contact, and opening my mouth to speak. I am still waiting for some words to come out.

"I get headaches too, sometimes. Sometimes from people..."

He nods, smiles, but still not in that fake, reassure the crazy guy kind of way. Just looks pleased that I said something. "Well, that sucks. At least mine are limited to when people are around. School's a pain, though." He grins. "Literally."

"I don't go to school. Not anymore. I mean..." For some reason, I don't want him to think I'm stupid or incapable or anything. Better crazy than stupid. "I used to go, but... Well, I still do schoolwork. I can do the work, just..."

He nods like he knows, like he sympathises, and he probably realises it's not just about headaches, but he doesn't ask. "That bad, huh?"

I look down at my hands. I want to say that it isn't that bad, not so bad, but it is. I'd be at school if I could. "Yeah. That bad."

The receptionist calls my name and the guy gives me a smile and a wave as I head into the psychiatrist's office and I’d really rather just stay there with him.

I spend the entire session ignoring my psychiatrist, counting the imaginary polka dots on the wall, and thinking about how I forgot to ask that guy what his name was. I've never seen him here before and maybe I'll never see him again, and maybe that would be better anyway, because right now I think he's probably the most amazing person I've ever met, but he probably isn't. Maybe it's best, because if I don't see him again he can stay how he is in my mind and I won't have to know all his faults. He can still be somebody good.

Have you been taking your medication, Andrew? Good. Good boy. It's Very Important.

When the appointment's over and I leave the office, the guy whose name I don't know is sitting there, but in a different seat, the one closest to the door I've just come out of, and he looks at me and he smiles and he stands up, and I realise he waited for me.

"I was hoping you'd still be here," he says, and I'm not sure what I did to make enough of an impression on him to make him care, but he smiles and I smile and it doesn't matter.

"Yeah." That's all I can think of to say because I don't know why he waited for me.

My mum's over at the reception desk, paying for the useless session that does nothing but give her the comfort of knowing that I'm seeing a professional. Seems like I go to more effort to make things okay for her than she does for me.

"So I was thinking I should probably get your phone number or your email address or something." He grins. "If you like."

"What's your name?" I ask, because that is what I was thinking, and because after wondering for an hour I want to make sure I ask this time because my thoughts get scattered and then I forget things.

He slaps he palm against his face. "Right, sorry! My name's Nathaniel. You're Andrew, right?"

"Yes," I say, and shake his hand when it's offered to me and it’s warm.

"Do you like Andrew, or do you shorten it, or..."

"Andrew's fine." Awkward pause. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Nathaniel or Nathan or Nate are the usual choices, though feel free to get creative."

I doubt I will get creative, because I'm not usually intentionally creative, and my unintentional creativity has nothing to do with names, but I just smile and nod.

My mum comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder, and Nathaniel introduces himself and shakes my mother's hand. I can already tell he's charming and good with people. He probably has lots of friends.

He's looking at me again. "So did you decide whether or not you're going to give me your number?"

"Oh! Yes." Awkward pause. I don't have a pen. I don't have any paper.

But Nathaniel can think in a crisis it seems, because he gets a pen and a piece of paper from the receptionist.

The next awkward moment follows quickly when I realise that I do not actually know our home phone number, because I never have to call myself and I don’t have anybody to give it to so I don’t know it. My mum does, though, and as she writes it down for Nathaniel I concentrate on pretending I don’t feel weird about not knowing it myself.

"Is someone coming to pick you up?" my mum asks him, because maybe he is crazy like me, and maybe he can't travel alone because the big bad world is too overwhelming.

"I'm taking a taxi."

"We could give you a lift home, if you like. It's no trouble."

I can tell my mum likes him, because he is normal even if he is a bit unusual, and because he is nice and maybe he will be my friend. I don't have any friends. I used to, before I got too crazy, but eventually everyone either decided I was too weird, or decided they liked my weirdness. They'd act sympathetic, but they never stopped asking about it. Have any hallucinations lately, Andrew? What did you see, Andrew? And they'd try to be caring, but they'd look so excited and intrigued and I was a freak show.

We do drive Nathaniel home, and my mum tells him it's not out of our way at all, but that’s a lie because it is in the opposite direction to our house. Nathaniel and I sit in the back, but mostly he and my mum are talking, despite efforts on both their parts to get me involved. I stare out the window when my mum tells him it would be good if I made a new friend, because I don't have many friends and I must be lonely. My head hurts and I wish she hadn't told him that, because it makes it seem like there's something wrong with me and there is something wrong with me. At least she said 'many' instead of the more accurate 'none'.

Nathaniel lives out in the countryside where it's nice and pretty and quiet. He tells us that they recently moved out here because it's easier for him out here, away from people. So he gets the headaches less. He says he had to change schools and my mum asks which school he goes to now, and he says the name of my old school. I hope he doesn't hear anything about me there. Not that I think anyone would still be talking about me after half a year, even if I did make a few scenes, but my mum tells him that's where I went and I worry that he might ask someone.

My mum says since the school is just down the street from us, Nathaniel should come over some time. She can give him a lift home after she returns from work. She says he should come over to our house on Thursday afternoons so he could drive to his psychiatrists appointment with us, and he says he would like that, and he keeps looking at me like he's asking if I would like that, but I'm staring at the roof of the car because my head hurts and because Nathaniel probably thinks I'm lame because my mum is trying to make friends for me.

Nathaniel invites us in so my mother can meet his mother, and because he is very polite. My mum says yes, and I don't complain even though I feel nervous because we're going to someone else's house and meeting someone new and somewhere along the way, that started making me nervous. I don’t like the realisation that I’ve become a little more broken since the last time I checked. I'm even more nervous that my nose will start bleeding and maybe I will bleed on their carpet like I’ve bled on our carpet a million times before and that would be very embarrassing.

Nathaniel's mother is very nice and she smiles like she means it, so maybe that's where he got it from. I am nervous and I know it shows because I am not very good at hiding it and there are gnomes that are not gnomes because they do not exist in their kitchen. Perhaps they notice that I'm distracted, but at least they don't know why, because my mum has not let that part slip yet. My mum knows, though, and she looks at me with sad eyes.

We have apple sponge cake and Nathaniel has a headache and so do I, and the gnomes have started a conga line, following us into the living room, and I wish they'd go away because it is quite difficult to ignore.

Nathaniel's mum suggests he show me their garden, and it's probably an excuse to get us out of the way so that they can talk about us, but we go anyway. It's nice out here and they have stone benches and I sigh as I sit down. I feel better. Nathaniel's company is actually quite comforting.

"You can come over after school if you want. I mean my mum said that, but I mean you don't have to tell us first or anything, because I'm always home and not busy. Except on Wednesday because I have school, but every other day..." I pause, realising I'm babbling, because that’s something I do when I'm nervous because when I actually have time to think about what I'm saying, I realise I don't actually have anything that needs saying. "My mum will give you a lift home afterwards. She gets home at five, so that's only a couple of hours and you don't have to feel obligated to entertain me or anything, you can just do your homework and have something to eat. If you want..."

When I finish speaking and take stock of myself again I realise that the stick I’d been playing with at the beginning of my speech has somehow become converted by my nervous fingers into several smaller pieces of broken wood scattered on the ground around my shoes.

He smiles and it's still genuine and he pulls his hair back into a ponytail and he doesn't look at me like my behaviour is odd. "I might just do that."

And I smile because I'm happy and I'm not happy often, and because my headache is abating.

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Author says: Mmmyeah. It’s ME. I’m here again, making with the writing. I was a little broken for a while but now I am less so. I’ve been working on this thing on my LJ, but I’m probably going to be editing the rest of what I have there quite a bit. So, yeah… LJ drafting. Feedback is awesome, as I’m actually attempting to write this thing with a little less random flail than previous writing endeavours.