From his earliest memories, I knew I was different. The world came at me too bright, too loud, a relentless assault on my senses that left me perpetually on edge. School hallways buzzed like beehives, the fluorescent lights humming and flickering until I'd press my hands over my ears and count the tiles to stay grounded. Birthday parties were torture I was forced to attend by my parents; balloons popping without warning, children shrieking, well-meaning aunts pulling me into hugs that made my skin crawl. I learned early on that saying "no" to touch made the adults around me frown, so I'd freeze instead, stiff as a mannequin, until they let go.

My diagnosis at sixteen of being on the autism spectrum came as both relief and distress. Relief, because there was finally a reason why fabric tags felt like razor blades and why sarcasm was such a foreign language. Distress, because now my brother Chris had a new word to pick on me with. "What, you're just gonna hide behind that autism thing forever?" he'd sneer, and how my high school counselors started to speak to me in that slow, careful tone usually reserved for toddlers as if I suddenly had the intellect of a newborn.

University was my first escape. My second escape was moving out on my own. A small cozy one bed one bath apartment, a place where I could control the lighting and the noise. This was perfect solitude bliss. Eventually, even in perfect solitude loneliness still gnawed at me. I wanted genuine connection with someone, wanted it desperately, but every attempt at dating crashed against the same immutable truth; most people didn't believe me when I told them I hated physical touch.

There was the med student, my first ever date, who called me "adorably awkward" before grabbing my hand across the table. I yanked back so hard I knocked over our drinks. He left early and I woke up the next day blocked on everything. Then there was the bartender who kept "playfully" jabbing his shoulder until I shut down completely. I was the one who blocked him.

My worst date of all time was the graphic designer. He rolled his eyes when I recoiled from his attempted goodnight kiss after the date went seemingly well. "Jesus, it's not like I'm assaulting you," he'd snapped, and I walked the six miles back home in the rain rather than ride an Uber.

I had stopped trying. Focused on my coding projects, my YouTube tutorials, the quiet rhythm of a life built around predictability. Then came a notification from the dating app I forgot to delete. Someone liked my profile. Curious, I tapped the notification and was taken aback. He was handsome, his profile looked like everything I ever asked for in a partner.

Nervously, I liked his profile back. I even texted first, a rare feat. For the first time, I dared to hope. After texting for a while, we set up a date at this nice quiet café.

Today is the day and I can't help my anxious excitement. The café door chimes as it swings open. My head snaps up, fingers tightening around my untouched tea. He arrives through the doors and I clear my throat nervously, suddenly afraid to talk. I don't stand to shake hands. Just wave him over to the table.

"Hey, it's nice to meet you finally." I greet him politely with a shy smile, beckoning him to sit.