He's giving me that close, observing look he always does. Like he's trying to solve me.
"Are you alright? You look pale," he says, genuinely concerned.
"I'm fine." I force it. A small, cool smile that feels like cracked glass on my face. My hand is shaking so bad my notebook wobbles. I try to pin it down with my other hand. It's difficult. Everything feels difficult.
"You want to grab coffee after? On me. There's a Starbucks downstairs," he says.
God, he still hasn't given up on that? This is the sixth — no, seventh time I'm about to reject him.
And in my head, it happens instantly. In my head, everyone turns. Every head swivels. In my head, everyone hears him ask me out and thinks, "Slut. Of course she would. And then she would get on her knees after." They laugh, loud and ugly. Fingers pointing. Phones come out, raised at me, recording again.
But in clear, actual reality —
No one looks. No one cares. It's just Daniel, being awkwardly nice, and me, being awkwardly terrified.
