After a long shower, Timmy dried off and changed into fresh clothes. He pulled on a simple t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts. His stomach growled, but he barely felt like eating. The adrenaline from earlier had burned away his appetite. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with his hands.
Why couldn't I just ask her to dinner? he wondered. The way she'd spoken, so distant and composed, had killed his courage. He had let fear get the better of him, and now it was too late.
Timmy finally pushed himself off the bed. There was no point in moping. He needed to get out, grab some dinner, and clear his head. He slipped on his shoes, trying to shake off the weight of disappointment. Maybe the resort's bustling dinner crowd would be a good distraction.
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