I’m on a date and everything seems to be going great. She excuses herself to the restroom to “powder her nose.” I’m scrolling on my phone when a stranger suddenly sits next to me, grabs my hand, and whispers, “Dude, run. That girl was… ”
He glances toward the hallway, like he expects her to appear any second.
“…crying in the bathroom,” he finishes. “Not normal nerves. Full-on panic. She kept saying she was going to mess this up again.”
Again?
My stomach flips.
The guy lets go of my hand, awkward now. “I thought you should know. She seems nice. Just… scared.”
He leaves before I can ask anything else.
I sit there, phone forgotten, replaying the night. The way she laughed too hard at my dumb joke. The way she kept apologizing to the waiter. The tiny tremor in her hands when ours brushed.
I could leave. Pay the bill. Avoid whatever again means.
But I remember how brave she looked walking in, like someone forcing herself to try one more time.
A few minutes later, she returns, eyes a little red, smile carefully rebuilt.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I get anxious.”
I stand up, heart pounding, and pull out her chair.
“Hey,” I tell her gently, “we can be anxious together.”
Her shoulders drop in relief.
And when she takes my hand this time, she’s the one holding on.
