No, really, she does!  What, you don't believe me?  Just read...

I wandered upstairs to look less lazy as I texted Twilight on my phone, noticed the room was also occupied by that one girl that strangely makes a point of saying "hey" that I always said "hey" back to and then forget about, and plopped down in my seat, swiveling around slowly so I'm facing the table while I finish my message.  Upon doing so and putting away my phone, I take a moment and actually look.  I can feel the awkward already, given how studiously she's ignoring my presence, and I, noticing this, don't say anything right away either, wondering why the hay I'm bordering on nervous.  After a few tense moments pass, I choose her notebook, filled with elegant script in blue ink, as a starting point for conversation.

"Writing?" I ask, boldly displaying my observational prowess and articulation.  She doesn't even glance up at first, focusing intently on the page.  After a few moments of silence, she nods, confirming my outlandish hypothesis.  Strangely intrigued, and mentally apologizing as I knowingly worsened her nervousness, I pried a little more.  “Is that for school, or just for fun?”

“It’s a hobby,” she responds quietly, glancing up only for a brief moment before returning her gaze to the page.  “I’m... not very vocal about it.”

Well, I’m about to be.  There’s another writer here, and I didn’t know?  Now, it’s important to note that I wouldn’t exactly say that I was having a googly-eye moment, as there wasn’t any particular attraction in a physical sense, but holy hayseed, was I interested!  I generally pride myself on being fairly sensitive towards others, knowing when to back off if somepony is getting uncomfortable, but I just couldn’t put a lid on it!  “Wow, that’s really cool!  I didn’t know there was another writer here.”  A smile?  Win!  “What genre?”

“Historical fiction.”

Hist... what?  I never liked history...  “...huh!”  ...seriously?  That’s all I’ve got to say?  “That’s really interesting!”  ...aaand now it sounds like I’m trying to hard.  Fantastic.  Why the hay am I even doing this?  “What time period?”

“I really like the 1800’s.”

1800’s, okay, that’s...  My rumination was short-lived.  Buck.  I have no idea when that was.  Wait, not when it was, she just told me that, I mean...  Heaving an enormous internal sigh, I concede to her superior knowledge of a subject I never paid any heed and, with some degree of humiliation, proceed to inform her that I don’t really know what the 1800’s were like.  Her explanation was short, and sadly, I can’t even remember it.  This is probably because I, like many males, have extreme difficulty managing any more than one task at a time, and while I try to be an attentive listener when females are speaking, my mind quickly rabbit trailed as I realized I was in the presence of an honest-to-Celestia Fluttershy.

She... totally is.  The way she only makes temporary eye contact, the nervousness, the not saying much of anything with any greater force and a gentle breeze... hay, am I turning things to poetry already?  What kind of magic is she using on me?  Did they have magic in the 1800’s?  I think most witches were burned around then... not that she needs to be burned!  Why the...  Saving me from my head was the entrance of another co-worker, who took what was already a mutually awkward proceeding and promptly gave me good reason to fear for my everything.

You see, I don’t even remember what the co-worker said, or even what I said in return, but if there was one word to describe my behavior, I’d say it was either “incriminating” or “smitten.”  For no real reason that I was consciously aware of, I responded to the third persons every comment as if she were drawing up wedding plans, and this poor Fluttershy sitting across from me was either thoroughly embarrassed by the suddenly loud and spastic male acting as if he’d just been caught laying down the moves or slightly flattered.  Maybe both.  By the time I did calm and turn back to her, she was smiling, and managed eye contact for more than a split second before returning pen to the page.  The pen, however, remained stationary as I attempted to escape the rabbit hole and return back to somewhere other than making a fool of myself.

“I never really liked history.”  She looked up at me, and I assessed the flavor of my foot from where it resided: firmly lodged in my mouth.  “T-though I think it could be really interesting!” I covered, quite serious and hoping that the heat tickling my cheeks was purely sensational and not visible to the human eye.  Fluttershy listened quietly as I went on to explain that history as a subject never held any interest for me, but should I take classes again, what I could learn wouldn’t be so much the events of a bygone era, but customs and lifestyles that could serve to add further realism to my writing.  It was actually a subject that I’d given some thought before, and as the conversation continued, I actually got a few sentences out of her.

“Yikes, listen to how I ramble,” I interjected after a while, standing.  “I’ll let you get back to writing, then.  Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, it’s fine,” she replied, smiling again.  “Don’t worry about it.”  As I descended back to the land of work, I found myself unable to get over how uncanny the whole situation was.  Was my interest in her solely for the common ground that I didn’t know we shared, or was there something else driving my inexplicable interest in a person I’d paid little attention?  Hay if I know.  All I know is that Fluttershy writes historical fiction, and I wanna read it.