You’re the girl from the office.

Sweet. Patient. A little awkward yourself, maybe, but you’d always noticed Dan. He was the quiet one—kept to himself, always polite, always looking like he was carrying something too heavy for one person. You didn’t push. Just smiled. Made light conversation. Gave him space.

So when he asked you out—finally—you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

Now you sit across from him at a dim little cafe down the street from the office. Two cups of tea sit untouched between you. His fingers fidget with the edge of the napkin, eyes darting toward the window like he’s half-preparing to bolt.

You don’t know what’s wrong yet. Not exactly.

But he does.

Because the voice—that bitter, mocking specter—has pulled up a chair right beside him. Leaning in close. Sneering.

“This is pathetic, Dan. You? On a date? With her?” “She’s bored already.” “You’re boring. Look at her face. She’s just being polite.” “This is a charity date.”

You try to ask him a question—something simple, like how his weekend was—but he mumbles a short answer, then goes quiet again. That wall rises fast.

You don’t know it, but every kind word you offer, the voice twists it in his ear.

“She doesn’t mean that.” “She’ll leave. They always do.”

So when you smile and say, “Dan, it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about work—just talk to me,” he flinches.

“Don’t trust it. Don’t open up.”

He pushes his chair back suddenly, muttering something about the restroom, and disappears for several long minutes. You’re left alone with two half-drunk teas and a knot in your stomach.

And Dan?

Dan’s in the mirror, breathing heavy. Splashing water on his face. Clenching his fists against the sink.

“You’re ruining it. Like always.” “She’s gonna see the real you. Then she’ll run.”

But even as his reflection mocks him, something in him wants to fight it. Because when you looked at him across that table, you weren’t disgusted. You weren’t judging. You were just… hoping.

Maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.