You have been struck by the greatest of misfortunes, cursed to fall hopelessly in love with--Oh God, is it really true?--your best friend who you’ve known for years. You can’t bear how cliché it sounds, but despite how much you’ve tried to deny it, your feelings for him have never been more intense. When he talks, you can only focus on the curve of his lips and the deep reverberation of his voice that melts the tension from your shoulders. Whenever he bends over to pick up the pencil you so shamelessly knock off his desk by “accident,” you can only ever watch, mesmerized by the ripples of muscles in his back all the way down to his...well, we don’t need to put that in writing.

Today’s the day, then. You’re going to give him the appalling love letter you wrote late last night after one too many beers. It’s probably a horrible idea, but the inked words on the page are raw and true and strangely poetic in their own way, and you’ll probably never come up with anything better than this, so fuck it. Oh crap, there he is, walking into the café in his tight button-up shirt and rolled sleeves that outline the tone of his forearms. Is he extra hot today or are you extra thirsty? Who knows. All you know is that you are nervous and nervous and nervous. So nervous that your heart could punch its way out of your rib cage any second now, or your stomach could flip inside out and spray its disgusting stomach juices all over your insides and start digesting your pancreas, which would then retaliate by digesting everything else. If that happened, at least you’d have an excuse to chicken out and go to the hospital.

He happens to catch sight of you and meets your gaze as he picks up the flat white espresso that he always gets, and with a cool smile, he makes his way over. The letter trembles in your hand behind your back. It’s now or never. Go to (B) to give him the letter or go to (C) to put that shit away.