I sat on the edge of my bunk, staring blankly at the neatly folded sheets. The common room meeting had just ended, but my mind was still stuck there, replaying every word. Juliet, the house prefect, had announced that we would be having socials the upcoming weekend. She explained that socials were events where boys from the partner school would come over, and we’d be expected to interact, play games, and build the kind of social skills meant to carry us beyond school. My stomach churned as I struggled to process the new reality of my high school life. How did the others seem so relaxed about it?

Back in the cubicle, Emily, my school mum, recounted the games they had played at past socials: “Truth or dare, spin the bottle, charades, speed dating-friends edition…just silly, fun stuff.” She laughed as she remembered being dared to climb a tree while singing at the top of her lungs.

I nodded along, pretending to listen, but internally, I was spiraling. What if, no, when put on the spot, what would I say? How was I supposed to talk to a boy after years in an all-girls primary school? Would I have anything intelligent to say? What if they asked something humiliating or dared me to do something absurd?

A part of me longed to experience the fun, to share in the laughter and feel the thrill of connection, but the fear was suffocating. That is the paradox of social anxiety.

I made a firm decision not to turn up for the event and began searching for an excuse. As fate would have it, that very weekend was a visiting weekend. My sister, Ann, arrived right on time, like an angel sent to rescue me from impending doom. Not because she understood my struggle, but because she loved me. Ann had always made time for her little sister, always showed up, always made the long trip just to see me. With her presence, I had the perfect alibi.

Skipping the Stars

Movie nights were legendary towards the end of the term. They were the kind of event everyone talked about weeks in advance.

I heard the whispers in the dorm long before the night arrived.

“What should we wear?” “I hope they play a romance movie!” “Do you think the boys will sit with us?”

I listened in silence, pretending to be engrossed in folding my laundry. My dormmates swapped outfit ideas and debated which movie would be screened, their excitement filling the air like static electricity.

Then, the moment I dreaded.

“Nia, you’re coming, right?”

The question barely landed before my thoughts took off. Suppose I went to the movie night, where would I sit? Would I end up in the middle of a row, trapped between strangers? What if someone started a conversation, and I had to endure small talk? What if there was an interactive segment and I was asked to share my experience of the story playing out on screen? I considered all the possibilities.

This is ridiculous, I told myself. It was just a movie. No one would be paying attention to me. And yet, the thought of stepping into that flood of voices and movement felt impossible.

I needed an excuse.

“I don’t know, I have some revision to do.”

Eva sighed dramatically. “Come on, it’s going to be fun! Everyone’s going.”

I simply smiled, kept my gaze low, and waited for the moment to pass. Emily rolled her eyes and left, joining the others as they buzzed around fixing their hair and slipping into their neat outfits.

As the dorm emptied, the excited chatter of girls trailed into the night as they made their way to the theatre. Phew! The pressure was finally gone. For a moment, I imagined the open theatre under the stars. The rows of students, the open sky stretching above them, and the silver-blue glow of the screen illuminating their faces. It must have been beautiful. But I wouldn’t see it. I never did.

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I had mastered the art of avoiding social interactions, but what happened in performance situations where there were no quiet exits and easy excuses, just a watching, waiting crowd. Did I find ways to stay hidden, or did the fear ultimately push me too far? This and more in Chapter 4.