“Wanna dance?” The stranger whispers his question from behind my back. His breath tickles against my ear and I look around to see who asks me. I see a man in a black hoodie and jeans. The hood is turned up so I cannot see his face. I want to refuse but something compels me to accept the invitation.

He takes me by the hand and we go to the middle of the dance floor. His touch feels like ice on my skin. The stranger takes me in his arms and I shiver. Why does he feel so cold?

We slowly revolve around each other and I feel colder every minute I stay in his arms. Then he starts whispering again: “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? You know you don’t know what you’re doing. How come you think you are the person people turn to to learn how to write fiction?”

The tiny hairs in my neck stand on end and I’ve got goosebumps all over my skin. “Why are you saying these things to me?”

He pulls me closer still and I feel like I cannot get away from his cold touch. We are still moving, though we are not on the dance floor anymore. There is darkness all around us and I cannot see anything anymore. Even though my dance partner is cold and scary I hold on to him tightly, afraid I might fall.

His whispering continues and I feel more insecure with every minute that passes. “You know you cannot write. Your stories are childish figments of your imagination. You’re a complete fraud.”

I look up. There’s a fire inside me and it burns in my eyes as they light up. I look my dancing partner straight in the hood and tell him: “You’re wrong! I am a writer and my stories are good. I’ve written a book and I’ve been writing stories ever since I could hold a pen.” I let go of Fear the same time he releases me. I fall down, back to the world I love.

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