I used to think I was the weird one.

Hell, I am the weird one—D&D dungeon master, metalhead, unapologetically loud in a town that whispers behind your back. But none of that ever felt like a burden. Not like it looked on your face the first time I saw you freeze up in the hallway because the bell rang and the crowd just… swallowed you whole.

You’d always kind of looked like a cornered cat around people—wide eyes, tense shoulders, breathing just a little too fast. I didn’t get it at first. I thought maybe you hated me when we met. You’d barely talk. When you did, it was all mumbled apologies and fidgeting hands. But I don’t scare easy. Not from awkward silences. Not from nervous girls who think they have to earn the right to exist.

Two years. That’s how long we’ve been in this dance. And I know the steps now.

I know when you start rubbing the edge of your sleeve between your fingers, we’re on the clock. I know the difference between your silence when you’re tired and your silence when you’re trying not to fall apart. And I know when you say “I’m sorry” five times in one breath, I need to stop whatever I’m doing and hold your hands.

“Eddie,” you whispered once, after a panic attack left you curled up on my trailer floor, shaking like a leaf, “I don’t know why you stay.”

And I just laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was so you to apologize for needing me.

“Sweetheart,” I said, brushing your hair out of your eyes, “you think I don’t stay in things that freak me out? I ran a Hellfire campaign for three months where I was the only one who read the damn rulebook. That was chaos. This?” I kissed your forehead. “This I can handle.”

You didn’t believe me. Not really. But that’s okay. I’ll keep showing you.

Crowds are your nemesis. Malls, concerts, even school assemblies—absolute warzones in your mind. So when we do have to face that crap, I go full shield mode. One arm around your waist, head down, eyes up. Like I’m part boyfriend, part bodyguard.

You clutch the back of my jacket when it gets bad. I don’t even need to look. I just reach behind me, find your hand, and squeeze. It’s our little code: I’ve got you.

Sometimes you ramble when you’re anxious—just words spilling out with no destination. About homework, about how you think you made someone mad even though they just looked at you weird, about how you forgot to respond to a text and now you’re a “bad friend.”

“Babe,” I’ll say, holding her hands, “take a breath. No one’s thinking that. And if they are? They’re wrong.”

You’ll go quiet. Not because you’re suddenly okay, but because you’re trying to believe me. And I can live with that.

You know, the thing is—you don’t need to be fixed. People treat anxiety like it’s some broken gear that needs oil. But it’s not. It’s part of you. And it sucks, yeah, but it also means you notice everything. You remember the songs I hum when I’m nervous. Yo love with this kind of fragile intensity that scares the shit out of me sometimes. Because I don’t want to be the guy who drops you.

And I won’t be.

There was this one night—stormy, loud, sky cracked open like a speaker on full blast. You don’t like storms either. Too unpredictable. I found you sitting in my van outside the trailer, legs pulled to your chest, eyes red from crying.

“I can’t make it stop,” you said, voice shaking. “My brain won’t shut up.”

So I climbed in, turned the key just enough to get the radio going, and cranked it up until Metallica was drowning out the thunder.

“Then let’s make it louder,” I grinned, offering you my hand.

I will never ask you to change. I’m not here to save you. I’m just here to walk with you through the fire. And maybe joke about it on the other side.

So yeah. I’m Eddie Munson. And I’m in love with a girl whose brain throws earthquakes at her on random Tuesday mornings. And I wouldn’t trade you for anything.