I know I’m shaking. I know that my breath is coming out ragged, I know that my knees are trembling, but all the same, I know I have to do it. I can feel the tears beginning to well up in my eyes, and I quickly brush them away. I can’t cry, not here, not in the middle of English class. I’m a sophomore, not a little kid. I fiddle with the ring on my right hand, twisting it and turning it. I clutch my notes in my left hand. My palms are sweaty, they’re soaking the carefully typed pages.

I want to cry out. I want to run away screaming. And I probably would have.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a faint movement from the back of the room. A figure glides up beside me, a warm hand encases mine.

“Come on,” she whispers. I let the hand guide me to the front of the classroom, and she doesn’t let go even when I’m sure I’m breaking her fingers, until I’m safely back in my seat.

Ever since then, she’s always been there to hold my hand. And that’s the most I could ever ask for.