stutter

The security escort last night was kind, I've sat in this car before. Back in the first semester of the schooling year, it was my first time requesting an escort, the five minute car ride was quiet, a kind of still and silence that could cut glass. I tried to strike up conversation, asking about the weather (I know, how cliché), but his words were few and minimal. I stepped out of the car that night feeling like I had tried too hard, like an overbearing red faced aunty – smothering and loud. This time he smiled a little bit more, even asked about my day and reversed up my driveway.

"Oh, you don't have to."

"That's okay, just want to make sure you get home safe."

It's the little things. 

Like, how gazes seem to linger, who knew two-second delays could make such a huge difference. Just the other day someone stayed with me, filled my time with conversation and laughter. Did I just put in effort to try and make my conversation interesting? I slipped up, fumbling over pronunciation and prose. What's in a story? My story? The same old feelings in a different setting. A restless uneasiness creeping in, and it makes me sick knowing how much I wanted to please this person. To be interesting enough to be worth talking to, to stay with. Just like that, I wanted it to stop. To all go away, because I couldn't tell if I wanted him to stay or leave. Eyes darted around looking for a word, a question.

"You look really nervous,"

"Oh, just restless and fidgety.."

I am nervous! The words were slipping off the tip of my tongue, heavy with anxiety, slurred with caution. Do you think I'm pathetic, look at how I'm still trying to be cool. I am not, I'm awkward and accidental and I make things uncomfortable. So go, just go. 

I can't even handle the little things.