Mark sat across from Emma, his heart thudding in his chest. The quiet hum of the café filled the space around them, the clinking of mugs and the low murmur of other conversations becoming a distant backdrop. But none of that seemed real to him right now. It was all just noise, a blur, because all he could focus on was her.
Her face, soft in the warm light, her eyes as calm as the gentle rain outside. She was laughing about something she'd just said, but Mark couldn't quite remember what it was. His mind wasn't on her words; it was on the feeling—the rush of emotions that seemed to swirl inside him, both dizzying and comforting at the same time.
His fingers wrapped tightly around his coffee cup. The heat was a small, tangible thing, grounding him, but still, it didn't settle the storm inside. 'I can do this. I have to tell her,' he thought. It wasn't just a thought; it was a promise to himself. Today was the day. Today, he would let her know what had been swirling in his heart for a while. He would tell her how much she meant to him, how something about her had shifted his world in ways he couldn't fully explain.
He took a slow, steadying breath. His hands were trembling, almost imperceptibly, but he felt it. He felt everything in his body tight and coiled with the pressure of what he was about to do.
He opened his mouth. And then closed it again. The words felt too heavy. Too raw. 'How do you even start something like this?' He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head—told himself he would speak clearly, without hesitation, but now that it was real, the words stuck in his throat like sandpaper. The fear came rushing back, that old, familiar doubt that had never truly left him.
He wanted to speak. Just say it, he urged himself. You can do this. But the thoughts in his head seemed to blur and overlap, like they were pushing against each other, making everything feel louder, more confusing.
Emma noticed the shift. She paused, her gaze drifting to him, her smile faltering just a little. "Mark?" Her voice was soft, like she could sense something was off. There was no judgment in her tone, just curiosity and concern.
Mark swallowed. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, he didn't want to look at her. He couldn't. His eyes fell to the table, to the ceramic mug in front of him. His mind raced, every heartbeat seeming to echo in his ears. You can't tell her, not yet. What if—what if she rejects you?
But then, just as quickly, another voice inside him pushed back. No. This is it. This is the moment.
He took a deep breath. His chest ached, a dull, heavy feeling spreading through him. He clenched his hands around his cup harder, trying to steady the trembling. He couldn't keep hiding behind this wall. He couldn't keep pretending to be okay when all he felt was scared. Scared of being vulnerable, scared of opening up, scared that who he really was—all of him—wasn't enough.
"I—" Mark started again, but the words stopped in his throat. They were there, but they wouldn't come. His voice felt too small, too fragile. He didn't want to break, not here, not like this, but he could feel himself unraveling. The pressure was too much.
Emma's hand, small and warm, touched his. It wasn't urgent or rushed, just a simple gesture. A quiet, grounding presence. Mark felt the warmth of it seep through the thin fabric of his sleeve, and something inside him loosened. It wasn't a solution, but it felt like a small reprieve.
Her gaze was steady as she looked at him, her eyes soft with understanding. She doesn't expect me to be perfect, he thought suddenly. She just wants me to be real.
"Mark," Emma said, her voice gentle but firm. "What's going on?"
And for a second, he didn't know if he could say it. 'I don't know if I can tell her the truth. I don't know if I can handle it' . But it was like the floodgates were starting to open. He couldn't keep holding everything back. Not anymore.
"I just… I just feel like I'm not good enough for you," he whispered, the words escaping before he even realized they were out. His voice cracked, fragile, as though admitting it made it somehow more real.
The silence that followed felt like it stretched forever. Mark could barely breathe, could barely think. He had said it. And now everything felt exposed, like his flaws were laid out in front of her, and the fear of rejection hit him full force. What if she doesn't understand?
He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed focused on his cup, on the swirling coffee inside, hoping it would give him something to focus on, anything to distract him from how exposed he felt.
But Emma didn't pull away. She didn't even flinch. Slowly, quietly, she moved her hand from his wrist to his palm, and then gently, she took his hand in hers.
Her fingers were warm against his, and the simple touch made his heart stutter in his chest. "Mark," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to have everything figured out."
Her words felt like a balm to the ache inside him. 'I don't have to be perfect?' The thought was almost too much to process. It was like hearing a language he'd never known, but desperately needed to understand.
"You don't have to be someone you're not," Emma continued, her voice a steady rhythm. "I don't need you to be perfect, Mark. I just need you to be real. And that's what matters."
He felt something stir inside him—something warm, like a flicker of hope. It wasn't much, but it was there. She wasn't asking him to be someone else. She wasn't asking for a version of him that didn't exist. She was asking for him, for all of him—messy, uncertain, imperfect.
"I'm afraid of messing this up," he admitted, his voice low, thick with emotion. "I don't want to disappoint you."
Emma squeezed his hand, and the gentle pressure of it was enough to make his heart skip. "You won't disappoint me," she said quietly. "Not by being yourself. I don't need perfection. I just need you."
Her words sank deep into him, wrapping around his heart like a tender embrace. And for the first time in a long while, Mark allowed himself to believe them. He didn't have to be perfect. He didn't have to hide. All he had to do was be here, be present, be himself.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.
The weight on his chest eased, bit by bit. It wasn't all gone, not yet, but in that moment, it didn't matter. The words were still there, swirling inside him, but they didn't feel so heavy anymore. Maybe he didn't have to speak them right now. Maybe this silence, this quiet connection, was enough.
In the softness of Emma's touch and the steadiness of her gaze, he found something he hadn't expected to find: a reason to believe that he was enough. And for the first time, he didn't feel quite so afraid to be himself.
****
A/N: I don't like this main character he is tooo lame, he can't even propose her.
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