“I guess I'd prefer if we'd just stay friends.” The words coursed through me like nothing I had ever heard before. Every bit of effort, every kind thing I'd ever said to her, every time we'd “shared a moment” – none of it mattered now; it was all just the path leading to despair.

I jolted awake from the nightmare, soaked in sweat, and contemplated my dream. What was I so worried about? It wouldn't be like that. No need to be afraid.

Still, it could go wrong. It could go horribly wrong. It could go so horribly wrong that I would never again be able to show my face in school, and I would have no choice but to hide in my room for the rest of my life, alone, ashamed.

What if she hated me? What if she slapped me? What if she told her friends I was a creep? What if the world stopped turning solely as a response to my unrelenting awkwardness, and then the sun exploded, and the aliens came, and … I almost allowed myself a chuckle before the worrying resumed.

I glanced at the clock next to my bed. 2:18. Only 10 hours and 12 minutes until lunch. Ten hours and 12 minutes to contemplate my life, discover my identity, and gloriously succeed at the ultimate task of manhood. As I lay in bed – thinking, fearing, but mainly wondering – I started calculating probabilities, assessing the possible damages, second-guessing myself for what seemed like hours. I created and re-created alternate realities in which every possible outcome occurred. I gained insight into my past, present, and future. I saw the face of God, and I made a deal with the devil. I tried to wake up from the dream I was sure I was in, and then I tried to wake up from that dream too. Finally, after I had unraveled all the secrets of humanity in an effort to avoid my incessant worrying, I glanced back at the clock. 2:28.

She and I had always been friends, but it wasn't until recently that I began to feel more for her. As a prepubescent seventh grader, I discerned girls had finally lost their cooties, and I planned to capitalize on this recent development. School, homework, and life in general all paled in comparison to the wonder and mystery of the opposite sex.

I couldn't count the number of times I searched on Google “How do I ask a girl out?” or “How do I make a girl like me?” I had already asked her out a million times in my head; I'd gone through all the possible answers; I'd constructed a response to every possible response of hers to every question of mine. There was nothing more to do than simply ask her.

Simply. As I contemplated it all morning, on the bus, and during my first classes, I realized just how simple it was. Just how simple life was. But simple doesn't mean easy, so the uncontrollable sweating of my palms certainly didn't take a break, no matter how many philosophical revelations I had during second-period Spanish class. I snapped back into reality, and then out of it again as I realized how little I cared about what llamar meant at a this moment. I sat there, in my apprehension, with nothing to do but wait.

My chance came at lunch. She was walking from the cafeteria to the library alone. I had been watching her as uncreepily as possible, waiting for her to appear, praying once more to the God I wasn't sure existed.

She turned as I approached and offered a simple “Hey.” I bit my lip as I threw aside all reservations and blurted, “Hey, um, so do you think maybe you would, like, want to go out with me or something?” Then I paused, realizing the complete ridiculousness of what I just said, and let out a small giggle.

She looked as though she'd been hit by a bus. She began to shake her head, mumbling something along the lines of “This isn't happening. This can't be happening.” Finally, she looked into my eyes, stared deep into my soul, and practically whispered the words I had learned to both fear and revere: “I guess I'd prefer if we'd just stay friends.”

I blinked, waiting to wake up from yet another nightmare, but this time there was no greater reality to reach; I was in the highest level of consciousness. Before I could mutter another sound, she was walking away, and I had fallen into the 10,000-foot-deep crevice of Hell and ceased to exist.

But then, in the wake of tragedy, the unexpected happened: something I had never considered in all my simulations, something I couldn't understand, much less predict.

I was okay with it.

Obviously, I cared; I was sad, crushed even. But as I looked around, expecting to see the world crumbling around me, it managed to stay pretty much intact. Then surprise turned to revelation, and I felt as if I had pushed the crushing boulder off me. I was Atlas no longer tasked with carrying the world. I once again had the ability to live. I let out a sigh, not of grief, but of relief, and I realized that I, quite frankly, had better things to do.

I didn't need her to say “yes”; I just needed to ask. To badly paraphrase the Bhagavad Gita, I am become Man, destroyer of fear. And I realized, as I walked away with a small smile, that I had succeeded in my quest, in my purpose. No matter what she said, I emerged victorious, king of the world.