He thought it would be a good idea. He hasn't done anything like this with anyone who isn't just a friend in a long time, and he didn't see her as just a friend. The conversations they had, the ways they played with each other at work. The one time they hung out outside of work, and the moment felt so right, but he didn't want to spoil anything by seeming too eager, or by being imposing. He didn't want to make her uncomfortable. He knew how these sorts of things tended to play out; He wasn't going to be thrown into that box labeled "weird men." He was going to be patient, and considerate. One of his two closest friends said to him "Just go see a movie with her, and see how it goes." Those were his exact words. That couldn't go wrong, he thought. No expectations, no conversations. Just see the movie, and see how it goes. "Be yourself." He felt like he was always himself. Was he just not happy with who that was? Who was he? If you asked the little voice inside, it would say things like "He's a coward." or "He has no spine." "He is selfish, and sensitive. A bad combination." He lived to spite that inner voice. But it was loud this evening, louder than the drum-pounding noise of the theater, louder than the emotions of the audience. Noise. Noise was in his head, and in his ears, and in his skin. TV static, train passing, thunderstorm raging. Noise. Rain on a tin roof, motorcycle down freeway. Noise. Distractions. Anything to numb the senses, anything to dull the focus. He homed in on anything else he could, to be free of what was. He thought it was a good idea. He thought that the two of them would have a day at the movies together. He even offered to pick her up, but she told him that wasn't necessary. They met there at the theater, and he had the tickets, but she was with someone. He didn't know she was bringing any friends, she hadn't mentioned that. They both were smiling. They're still smiling. The guy that came with her, who he now understands is her boyfriend, sits between the two. They joke and enjoy the film. he sits on his right; He stares at the screen but sees no scenes, or hears no words. He doesn't laugh when its time to laugh, nor does he pout when it's time to be sad. He is only waiting. He already paid for their tickets. It would not only be rude to leave now, but also  a waste of money. The little voice inside says "don't give them the satisfaction. Stay here, and have fun." and it also says "why are we still here? I want to go home." Ever in character, he was paralyzed. In his peripheral, he could see one or both of them occasionally glance at him or call out to him quietly. One time, her boyfriend even got up to get a refill or something, and she tapped him on the arm. For a moment, he broke the spell, and looked at her. "Are you OK?" she said, hushed. He gave a half smirk and a thumbs up, his signature silent confirmation, and went back to staring through the screen, and the wall, at whatever invisible force lay far beyond. He stayed that way for a long, long while. He stayed that way until a broom brushed against his shoes, and he reflexively retracted his legs under the seat. All at once his senses returned to him. She was gone. Her boyfriend was gone. The entire theater room was empty, and the screen had that faint black glow of nothingness. The employee looked at him silently until he awkwardly stood and gathered his things, and shuffled off down the many stairs, around the snoring patron in the front most seats, and down that dim corridor that lead to the exit. He went across the hall to the bathrooms, and checked his phone at the urinal. He saw a small pile of messages, but nothing that raised any alarms. He checked his socials briefly to see if anyone liked him or messaged him back, but there was nothing new there. When he was done, he washed his hands, and left the building, eyes forward. He didn't even realize the greeters saying goodbye to him. Normally, he wasn't so rude. He thought himself to be a considerate and kind person, but right now he didn't feel like himself. But how could that be? He was always himself. So what was that back there? What was this, here now? He tried to concentrate as he climbed into his car and started it up. He tried to recover all the focus that was scattered and blown away by the numbing air of the last few hours. But the moment the car door was closed, it was like a great wall's first stones began to fall. And for the rest of the ride back to the apartment, there was the rumbling of the engine, and the crumbling of his composure. Snot-nosed and teary-eyed, sniveling and whining hoarsely. He could only feel this way when no one else was looking. Not even his own mother had ever seen him like this— not since he was a child. This was the storm. He always found storms calming, and frightening. They were chaos, and honesty. The wind would toss small branches and lighter things into the walls and windows of their little apartment, and it would roar and howl like a wild animal, and the rain would pound, then streak down the glass, and he would think of the car wash tunnels. And the lightning would flash, and he would try to count, and the close thunder would shake his body and crack throughout the sky, and it would make him cower and cry. But he wouldn't ever go inside. He would stand in the yard and watch the dark, rolling clouds pass overhead. it was only when he was solitary, and swallowed by the storm on all sides, that he could see his Self.