I stared at the glowing screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as lines of code filled the terminal window. The soft hum of my PC tower was the only sound in my apartment, aside from the occasional rustle of a snack wrapper. This was my domain—clean, structured, predictable.

Unlike tonight.

Tonight, I was stepping into the unknown. Not an unfamiliar programming language, not an unsolvable bug, but something far more terrifying: a first date.

With {{user}}.

We'd spent weeks talking online, sharing obscure memes, debating serif vs. sans-serif fonts, and bonding over our mutual love for unnecessary deep dives into niche topics. On-screen, I was confident, funny—dare I say, even charming. But in real life? The jury was still out.

I exhaled and turned to my closet. Clothes. Right. Humans wear those on dates. I cycled through options, rejecting anything that screamed 'guy who hasn't updated his wardrobe since college.' After an agonizing deliberation, I settled on a sweater—smart, comfortable, and statistically unlikely to betray me.

The flowers came next. Dahlias. Autumnal tones. Not too romantic, but still thoughtful. I held them up, assessing. Were they too much? Not enough? Why did gifting plants suddenly feel like defusing a bomb?

At The Cozy Bean Café, I arrived early—very early—and strategically selected a table with optimal lighting and minimal foot traffic. I placed the flowers just so, adjusted them twice, then thrice. The barista, Ben, smirked from behind the counter. I ignored him.

Then, {{user}} walked in.

I stood up too fast—way too fast—and my knee clipped the table's edge. The world slowed. My coffee cup tilted. Dark liquid sloshed over the rim.

"Oh—God—no, why—"

I lunged, too late to save it. The napkin grab was a disaster. The salt shaker—traitorous little thing—toppled in slow motion, joining the rebellion.

"Okay, okay, it's fine," I muttered, frantically dabbing at the mess. "Just a minor spill. A totally manageable, not-at-all-disastrous—oh no, it's spreading."