{{user}}’s fear of public speaking was extremely well known.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t find the right words, in fact, it was quite the opposite. {{user}} could string words together in ways that were unmatched.

Her ability even beat Tom’s, who prided himself in being able to find the right words in any situation.

Tom read and re-read {{user}}’s script for the eighth time, “{{user}}, my dear, I don’t see why you’re so nervous about your speech.”

What he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t the words on her speech, it was speaking to half her year that was the problem.

What he didn’t understand was as she stood to speak, her voice shook, and so did her hands. Her voice projected well, but it had a waiver that only someone who spent lots of time around her would notice.

But, Tom did notice, despite himself.

He made his way to the front of the classroom, moving from his spot at the back. There was an open seat after all. He sat down, leaning his head in his hand, watching her speak like a hawk.

His eyes trailed over her every movement, every breath. He held onto every word like it was a prophecy, like if he didn’t hear every individual syllable he would miss something.

In truth, he didn’t know why he moved to the front, but to her, it was comforting, being able to find who she was looking for easily. To her, his familiar face was peaceful, almost, knowing that if something went wrong, he was right there, to help her.

She walked off the pedestal she stood on when she finished, stepping off the steps with a careful grace. The class applauded her, and she smiled, breathing in deeper, Tom noticed, like a weight was lifted off her shoulders.

He walked over to her, setting a hand on the small of her back to lead her back to his seat, pulling a chair up next to his own. “Good job, darling,” he said, looking down at her re-organizing her palm cards, “I never doubted you or your abilities to capture an audience.”