sjsprWriting

Admit one, but not this one. 


No, you are still holding the ticket between your thumb and index finger, standing out of the theatre and staring, like the true moron you are. You know she's in there, you know she's waiting, but you can't bring your feet to move forward or even begin to attempt stretching out your ankle in the slightest bit. Sweat beads tickle your forehead and roll down your neck, while a strange combination of nervousness and giddiness (you think, but you can't be too certain, but you're pretty sure it's called anxiety) creep up it. 

Suddenly (or maybe not, because as so far, it's all you have been thinking of), she pops up in your mind, and scenarios that others might call "cute" but only bring more anxiety and you call "stressful" run through your mind. Like how suddenly she'll want to hold your hand, and oh god you hope she hasn't noticed how sweaty your palms are, or how when she'll smile at you, you'll blush, and you could only pray that it is dark enough in the theatre that she cannot see how the color has suddenly spread delicately across your cheeks, sweet roses in bloom.

Your feet finally move, but not in the direction you really want it to (or maybe it is, deep down inside), because you find yourself moving backwards, leaving, retreating, because why not. You've accepted a while ago that sometimes, when the occasion calls for it, it is simply better like this; don't put yourself in a hard postion, stay where its safe. She won't hate you for it, you've convinced yourself. She won't be disappointed. Hurt. Because you are a human being: fallible, faulty. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone has their own issues--surely she will understand that. And you think, that's the worst they can call you after all: a human being. Capable of making mistakes. 

Crumple the ticket, pulling your hand into a fist.

Admit one, but not this one.