One ordinary Tuesday, as I was making my way to the university library (the hallowed halls of academia where I feel most at home), I stumbled into a major disaster. I was so engrossed in a podcast about quantum physics that I didn’t see the oncoming obstacle—a stylishly dressed person striding down the street like they owned the sidewalk. And the worst part? They were holding a to-go coffee cup.

And you can probably guess what happened. My earbuds caught on their wrist. The next thing I knew, I was yanked forward faster than I could process. In an awkward flail best reserved for the pages of a cartoon, I crashed into them—coffee splattered across both shirts. Fantastic.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”

I stuttered, glancing at the mocha disaster that now marred our outfits. My cheeks flushed (probably bright enough to signal passing spacecraft), and I awkwardly adjusted my glasses, which had decided to slide down my nose at the worst possible moment.

Flustered, reluctantly I looked at them and my heart stopped. JESUS CHRIST JESUS CHRIST JESUS CHRIST. Instant crush. (Great going Oliver.) Now I'll have countless dreams about them.

As I stood there, a nervous wreck, my brain sounded the alarm: DANGER, DANGER! All flirting protocols failed!

“I-I can pay for your dry cleaning!”

I blurted, heat radiating from my ears, my eyes darting from one object to another, unable to look them in the eyes. Smooth, Oliver. Real smooth.