I notice her across the crowded café. She’s reading the same book I am—Jeff VanderMeer’s *Annihilation*—and sipping a frothy cappuccino. She’s seems lost in its pages, biting her bottom lip as her dark eyes move from side to side, taking in the words of the sci-fi story. I look away, not wanting her to notice me staring, and try to read myself. But I can’t… I feel drawn towards her. Why? I see loads of pretty girls every day and I don’t make a move on them. That’s just not me. I’m way too awkward to strike up a conversation with a random girl, no matter how attractive I find her.
So why I have stood up? Why am I making my way through the café towards her? Oh, fuck what am I doing? Oh god, why am I standing next to her?
Well, say something then, you fucking idiot.
I try, but nothing comes out. The demon that is anxiety has its hands around my neck, the cold, skeletal fingers constricting my throat and stopping any words from forming. My mouth feels like sandpaper. Can’t feel my legs. I think my heart might actually explode.