There had to be an easier way to get there. He wanted to get closer, to know her better. The miniscule slip-ups tripped up his tongue, strung his stomach in wrings, and choked his lungs. He couldn’t steady his line of approach. And as he waited, she moved on and drifted farther away.
There had to be a faster way to get there. He had watched her from an entire scope of angles for so long; nothing should have escaped his eyes. He could play it cool: he could start off with a smooth start in velvet notes. He could use the direct method: he could keep it confident and ride it out.
Or he could be himself.
There had to be an honest way to get there. No more masks, no more hiding. Break her lines of defense one by one until he could see his destination with his own eyes, his own fingers, his own lips.
To the very beginning of the first gesture to the first short moment of eye contact, every second counted. He had to catch her at the right moment and bide his time down to the first “Hello.”