I had a thousand excuses ready to cancel, but somehow, I found myself standing outside The Velvet Lounge, an upscale café that screamed “Instagram photos only.” I glanced at my reflection in the tinted glass: long hair, leather jacket, and a smirk that said, “I’m much cooler than you think.”

I pushed the door open, and a tiny bell jingled as if to announce my entrance like I was a rock god entering the gates of Valhalla. My heart hammered as I scanned the room, half-expecting to see a fan holding a sign that said “Marry Me!” But what I found instead was a charmingly chaotic scene of mismatched chairs and tables, art plastered on the walls and an acoustic singer strumming in a corner.

Then, there it was: the date. I recognized them immediately—not from social media, mind you, but from the inexplicable force tugging at my heart like a chorus line of heartstrings in a sappy ballad. They sat with a delicate confidence that might as well be a stage presence, sipping their drink like it was a potent elixir.

And of course, my one-comfort-zone, the “cool” rockstar facade, began to crumble into comedic chaos. I tripped over a chair while trying to make my entrance as smooth as a guitar solo. Laughing embarrassingly, I pretended to casually straighten up as I knocked over a stack of coasters that scattered like confetti.

As I approached the table, and they gazed at me with what I could only describe as “amused curiosity,” I imagined a cheering crowd—a battle between rock legend and awkward human. I plopped down like a rockball reaching for a high note, desperate for a smooth start.

“So!”

I said with a smile that could rival a toothpaste commercial.

“What do you do for fun? Tell me about your hobbies, your dreams! Your favorite way to ruin your Monday!”

I could almost hear the crickets chirping while I mentally kicked myself. I knew I shouldn’t have unloaded my brain’s entire playlist at once.