I fight to not roll my eyes at the question. It’s the beginning of a question, ultimately presenting a vague concept that does not exist. Can never exist.
A life without fear is impossible. The fear isnevergoing to go away. I know that for sure. The fear I carry isn’t something that I’ve ever been able to negotiate or battle with. All I can do is manage it and take it day by day. I’ve worked tirelessly to shift my perspective and practice techniques to use in panic-inducing situations, all the while knowing that the fear isn’t going anywhere.
As long as I exist, the fear will exist.
The fear isn’t going anywhere, I repeat to myself over and over. The words flow and sprawl across my brain like an ink stain spreading.
The distant echo of Nora minutes before seeing Queen Ego chimes within me:I have to do this. For my own sake.
I knew I wanted to see Queen Ego more than anything, so I made it happen. Even though I was scared that the experience would sting me like the last time I tried.Petrified. But the fear didn’t stop me from trying again.
Pride filters deliciously through me that I did make it here and see them perform live, despite everything. I stepped into the centre of the crowd, the eye of the storm, even though I was terrified it could all go wrong. Purely because I wanted to try. And when I was watching Queen Ego, it felt like I was really living; like I was doing both my future and past selves a great service. Not a single part of me would ever regret doing that. Even if I had panicked and left again, it still would have been worth it.
My fingers fiddle with the edges of my jacket sleeve. Why is Hennie taking so long? I scan around the lake for her silvery-blonde head but find nothing.
My mind churns as it desperately binds threads of doubt and hope together.
When faced with the wishing tree and my own post-it, I remembered that it had not even occurred to me to wish to meet Queen Ego. My mind went straight to the person I had been attached to all weekend. His stoic expression and upturned smirk flashes in my mind even now, when I turn my gaze up to the edge of the sun peeking out from behind a cloud.
My rational brain knows this makes sense. Wishing to meet a band that I do not know, hoping that the idea of them might be real and that I might connect with them is valid.
But Elliothadbeen real. He’s flesh and blood and infuriatingly stubborn. The picture of kindness, patience, and compassion. I had spent three days helping him, and letting him help me. Opening up to him about things I normally avoid. He had seen me in pain and he hadn’t looked away.
And so I ask myself a question: is it time for me to do something irreversibly stupid?
Maybe stupid isn’t the right word. Brave sounds better. I’ll go with that.
I can’t trust myself that this is the right decision because I simply don’t know what the outcome here will be. But perhaps it’s about time I take a risk.
For some reason, when he isn’t standing right in front of me, the idea isn’t quite as devastating or humiliating.
Before I can think myself out of it, I whip my phone out of my pocket, desperately punch out the first message that I can think of and hit send:
Want to go for a drink?
It sits there in a lonely green bubble. I stare at it with horror as it hovers awkwardly below our previous messages, unprompted and unread.
Oh God. What have I done? Oh no.
No no no no no. No!!
I quickly press my thumb against it and tap the reddelete, then bury my face in my knees.
I can’t do it. I can’t ask him out via a stupid message. I can’t text out what I want to say; it doesn’t feel like enough. I resist the urge to scream.
Okay, maybe I can’t ask him out. Never mind. I tried.
I heave out a frustrated sigh and tap my phone against my forehead several times. Elliot’s bright eyes and easy smile leap to my mind and my gut twists all over again.
I sit up, staring at my deleted message.
Then a stupid idea knocks me sideways. It is completely, totally idiotic. But it feels like something I want to do.
I type out a new message and press send.
Where are you?
A small clock symbol sits at the bottom of the message. It isn’t delivering to his phone. I watch it with my heart in my throat, and then force out a groan.
