Tell me how to love you

The soft morning light seeped through the blinds, its pale glow stretching across the room in delicate ribbons.

Mark was chatting with emma.

"I'd really like that too, Emma. It feels nice, talking to you. I think we could make something real out of this."

After a few second, his phone vibrates, it was her replay.

"Mark our date, it was bad wasn't that! Lets start over, see you again for coffee. I'll be at the café at 10. See you soon."

Her words were so ordinary, but in that moment, they felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. Her certainty, her ease, unsettled him. She's so calm, he thought, his stomach tightening as if she could feel his anxiety, somehow. How does she make it look so easy?

The truth was, Mark wasn't sure how to be anything but the person he was right now—broken, unsure, fearful. He had been carrying so much weight, and yet somehow, here she was, asking for something more from him. Something better. And that terrified him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing back the wave of self-doubt that crashed over him. It was a familiar feeling. It had been with him for years. The idea that he wasn't enough, that he never would be. He had always been the one to hold back, to hide behind a smile and pretend everything was fine. But this was different. He didn't want to just show up for coffee. He wanted to be seen, for who he really was—flaws, scars, all of it.

Mark swung his legs out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a thud. The familiar chill of the wood beneath his feet grounded him for a second, but his thoughts still whirled, his stomach tightening again. His hand reached for the phone, checking it one more time. The message was still there, simple, warm. She hadn't said anything about him needing to be perfect. Yet in his mind, he felt like he needed to be. He needed to be something that resembled the person he used to be—the person he had long since lost touch with.

He walked to the bathroom, his movements slow, almost mechanical. The lights flickered on, harsh against his tired eyes, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked drawn, pale, like a person who hadn't slept for days—which wasn't far from the truth. The anxiety had stolen sleep from him, and it felt like it was about to take everything else too.

What if she doesn't like who I am? The question echoed in his mind like a drumbeat. What if she saw all the cracks he had spent so long trying to hide? His reflection stared back at him, and for a moment, he hated the person looking back. He didn't want her to see him this way. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be someone worthy of her affection, her attention, but every time he looked at himself, he saw a mess of uncertainty and fear.

He splashed cold water onto his face, the shock of it momentarily snapping him out of the spiral. His breath hitched for a second, the coldness pulling him back into the present. He wiped his face with a towel, and for the briefest of moments, he let himself just be. I can do this, he thought, the words barely escaping his lips. It was an effort to even believe them. I just need to show up.

But the weight of his insecurities still clung to him, suffocating him with every breath. He was terrified. Terrified of falling short, of disappointing her before they even really had a chance. He wasn't sure what she saw in him, but he feared that whatever it was, it would vanish the second she realized how much he was struggling inside.

His hand trembled slightly as he picked out a shirt, something simple but not too casual. He changed quickly, the fabric of the shirt brushing against his skin, the action automatic. But as he caught his reflection in the mirror again, his chest tightened. Is this enough? The question lingered, despite his best attempts to silence it.

What if he wasn't enough for her?

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, his legs feeling heavy as he walked across the apartment. He paused with his hand on the door handle. His heart beat in his chest, too fast, too loud. He closed his eyes, took a long, shaky breath. And for the first time that morning, he realized something: he didn't have to be perfect. He didn't have to be someone else. He just had to show up. That was all he needed to do. Just be there and see—how it goes.

The cold air hit him like a slap when he stepped outside, a welcome shock to his system. The world outside was alive with the sounds of the city—traffic, voices in the distance, the hum of life moving on without him. It was strange, how the world could keep turning while his heart was still stuck in place, torn between fear and something else. Hope, he realized with a start. I'm afraid, but there's hope too. I can feel it, just beneath the surface.

The walk to the café was slower than it should have been. His mind couldn't settle, his thoughts still tumbling in all directions. But as he got closer to the familiar building, the knot in his stomach loosened just a little. It wasn't perfect. It wouldn't ever be perfect. But he was showing up. He was going to meet her. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The café came into view, its warm glow spilling into the cold morning air, the sound of quiet conversation floating from inside. Mark stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to steady himself. He wasn't sure what would happen once he walked in there. He wasn't sure what he would say or how the conversation would go. But that was okay. It had to be.

Mark stood outside the café, his breath visible in the cool morning air, chest tight with anticipation. His hand hovered over the door handle, a momentary hesitation tugging at him, making the space between the sidewalk and the warmth of the café feel like an ocean he wasn't sure how to cross. The hum of conversation from within—the sound of clinking coffee cups, soft laughter—seemed distant, almost unreal, as if it didn't belong in the world of his racing thoughts.

He let out a slow exhale, pushing away the fluttering anxiety, and with one last glance at the door, he pulled it open. The moment he stepped inside, the warmth hit him like a wave, calming his nerves just slightly. The air smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon, a scent so familiar that it almost felt comforting. He could hear the soft murmur of the barista at the counter, a mix of orders being taken and the clink of espresso machines. But all that noise blurred into the background as his eyes scanned the room.

And then, there she was

***

A/N:"What if he wasn't enough for her?"

After reading again (befor uploding) this line sounds sus.

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