Every other Tuesday, at exactly 3:10 PM, here I sit, in the over-cushioned and uncomfortably green chairs made out of a completely unidentifiable material that makes the undersides of my legs itch when I stand up. In the same room, across from me and precisely two uncomfortably green chairs to the right, is where he sits, every other Tuesday at exactly 3:10 PM. I always arrive a few minutes earlier than I’m supposed to because I don’t want to be late, but I also don’t like being here alone for too long. I like to think that this boy has an identical reason for his timed arrival. I occasionally glance up at him and attempt to gather all the information that I can in the split seconds that I allot myself after calculating in my head how long it might take him to feel my gaze and notice me looking at him. This would surely make me uncomfortable, so I am very careful.
He often wears black sweaters and his skinny jeans always seem ironed. He sits with his hands folded across his lap, legs slightly crossed at the ankles, with his head down. I don’t mind in the slightest that he sits like this, because I tend to imitate a similar position when I too, am by myself, but I truly just like it because his dark brown curls flop down in front of his face and he will occasionally shake his head to either side in an attempt to rid himself of the visual handicap, as it presents a problem when one is trying to read. He always brings a book to read while he waits; I like this, too. Maybe he tries just as desperately as I do to live in any other possible reality than the one we currently and unfortunately reside in. He has a little scar on his left index finger and I think that’s peculiar because I have a very similar scar, except it is on my right finger. My mother likes to laugh and say it’s because of turning too many pages of too many books. I wonder if that is how he got his scar. I think I would like to talk about books and discuss his favorite authors with him, but I am not ready to start a conversation with a stranger yet, at least that’s what Dr. Eleanor J. Hughes tells my mother and me.
Dr. Eleanor J. Hughes is my psychiatrist whom I have been seeing for several months since she decidedly predicted that I have social anxiety. I think she came to this conclusion after she found out that I hold my breath when people I do not know try to talk to me. I just nod my head when she attempts to explain the scientific facts behind her diagnosis and continue to practice talking to the stuffed bear she gave me to help build conversational skills. I do not use these skills. Sometimes the Boy in the Black Sweater looks up to check the time and I’ll immediately look down and pick at my nail polish or fidget with the edges of my skirt until I end up fringing the bottom from pulling out too much string. I wish I did not do this, for I would very much like to know the color of his eyes. I imagine that they would be green, but not the very bright green that the models in magazines are photo shopped to have; they would be a bit darker and a much deeper green. I heard someone say once that we find others attractive if they have traits that we ourselves would like to have. Maybe this is why I hope his eyes are green; I have very plain brown eyes and I wish I had a different color, quite particularly green. I think, however, I would like him still, if his eyes turned out to not be very green.
The Boy in the Black Sweater forms a small side smile as his eyes skim the lines of the page in front of him; I wonder what could have caused that reaction. Maybe it was a funny line the author wrote, or a grammar mistake he found mildly amusing. A surprisingly prominent dimple appears on the right side of his face where his mouth curves upwards. I don’t think he smiles a lot. I would petition for him to do so a great deal more. 
I once read a quote by a man called Larry Brown regarding his experiences going through therapy. He wrote “After a year in therapy, my psychiatrist said to me ‘maybe life isn’t for everyone’.” This is a frightening thought. I have never felt so helpless and lost that I thought that life wasn’t meant for me, but it worries me that some people might. I hope that the Boy in the Black Sweater doesn’t feel like that. I would very much like to give him a hug if he did, I think.
My family is composed of very upbeat, positive people, which is a good situation to be in, according to Dr. Eleanor J. Hughes, but I am not always so sure. At dinner, my eyes are usually cast downwards as I play and push around the bits of food left on my plate but then stop because I don’t like the sound of my fork scraping against the ceramic. I sometimes do not want to carry on a conversation. My family always wants to carry on a conversation. They’ll make jokes and laugh at how quickly my mood can change and I will muster up enough energy to pull the corners of my mouth upwards into a somewhat convincing smile even though I don’t really feel like smiling. I wish they would just overlook my quietness and not try to prompt me to tell them what’s wrong. Coincidentally though, I find myself often fighting my impulse to ask the Boy in the Black Sweater the very same question.
I often ponder a theory I read in a book once called the multiverse. Basically, I believe it states that there are an infinite number of universes besides ours that contain every circumstance imaginable to us. I wonder if there is another universe in which I hold my head up, instead of looking at the ground, or maybe one in which the Boy in the Black Sweater wears a different color and has blue eyes. Maybe there is one where we could carry on a conversation together without nervously reaching into our bags or pockets for a Xanax. I think I would very much like to live in that universe, and I think I might like to hold his hand, even though hands are sometimes a little sweaty, and that makes me nervous.
At 3:20 pm, the secretary behind the glass window motions me to go back to Dr. Eleanor J. Hughes’ office. The session drags on as I answer all of her usual questions and she sighs with contempt as I, yet again, give her hardly anything to work with. I walk out, head down, and see a pair of completely un-scuffed, black converse in my limited line of vision just moments before I collide with a body. My eyes squeeze shut and my mouth purses into a tight line. My left hand instantly shoots down to grab the end of my skirt, and I feel the familiar pieces of frayed strings between my fingers; I feel a hand graze the small of my back in order to steady the both of us.  I slowly raise my eyes to the poor person who was victimized by my habit and I manage to stutter out an apology between shaky breaths. The person gives me a small nod and manages a nervous, yet empathetic smile that brings a familiar deep crevice to his right cheek.
For the first time, I am face to face and eye to eye with the Boy in the Black Sweater.
I smile.
They are green.