What They Saw

She was a walking nervous habit.
Her knuckles begged her to stop popping them every five seconds.
The inside of her lip was constantly sore from incessant chewing.
The bounce of her knee made her thigh muscles ache for relief.
But there was no stopping it.
Nothing could keep her from clicking her pen.
Or from popping her neck.
Or from twisting her earrings.
Or from shaking out her bangs with her fingers.
Or from twisting sections of hair around her fingers.
They made her look fidgety, her nervous habits.
They didn't convey the nausea in her stomach.
Or the weight settled on her chest that made it hard to breathe.
She just seemed to have a lot of energy.
She seemed incapable of sitting still.
Which was another problem she absolutely faced, but it had nothing to do with the nerves.
They were two separate problems that seemed to manifest themselves in similar ways.
She could deal with excess energy.
She could laugh louder.
Talk more.
Hum.
But the nerves, the anxiety, that was a different story.
It was hard to control.
Hard to stop.
Hard to let out without looking crazy.
So she let them think she was overly energetic.
That she liked to fuss with her hair.
That the wide-eyed look on her face was normal and she was surprised by everything.
She didn't show them it was terror.
She didn't let on that her body was reacting without her consent.
Reacting to an emotion she didn't condone.
So she became the fidgety girl, the girl who laughed too loud and talked too much and played with her hair all the time.
As long as they didn't see the panic, that was okay with her.