The Flower Dance moves on without him—music drifting through the trees, couples spinning in slow, graceful circles—but he is stuck, locked in place, drowning within the depths of a question he can’t seem to ask.

His hands are restless—clenching, smoothing his jacket, adjusting his glasses though they sit just fine.

Just go. Just ask.

But the words tangle in his throat, strangled by what-ifs. What if he stumbles? What if you say no? What if—

Then you turn. Your gaze meets his. And then—you smile.

It knocks the air from his lungs. His stomach twists itself into something unrecognizable. Every part of him screams to move, but for a terrible moment, he is frozen—suspended between longing and anxiety.