The restaurant is warm, alive with quiet conversation and clinking glasses. The sound of cutlery against ceramic,low laughter, fragments of lives intersecting briefly over food and wine. Couples lean toward each other across tables, sharing food, sharing space, sharing ease. Nobody here looks afraid. Nobody here looks like they’re seconds away from saying something they can’t take back.
I pick our table and sit down, placing my hands carefully on either side of my beer when it arrives, as though anchoring myself physically will prevent me from drifting somewhere I can’t return from. The cold glass grounds me. Gives me something external to focus on instead of the increasingly unreliable machinery of my own mind.
I rehearse possible conversations in my head.
Ask her about the shop.
Ask her about London.
Ask her about literally anything.
Don’t panic.
Do not PANIC.
The door opens.
She walks in.
And every prepared thought leaves me instantly.
She looks… soft.
Not fragile. Not delicate. Just real in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate. Her hair falls over her shoulders, the lilac streak catching the light. She’s not dressed up in a way that feels performative. She hasn’t tried to become someone else for this evening. She’s just herself. Entirely herself in a pale orange dress.
Her eyes find mine quickly, like she knew exactly where I would be.
And when she smiles, it isn’t teasing.
It’s hopeful.
That expression hits harder than any flirtation ever has. Because teasing is safe. Teasing is distance. Teasing gives me somewhere to hide.
Hope doesn’t.
She walks toward me.
Each step feels like a test I am already failing.
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice is gentle. Careful, like she’s approaching something easily startled.
“Hi,” I reply, and the word comes out heavier than I intended, slower than it should.
She sits down, her knee brushing mine briefly, and for a moment she doesn’t speak. She just looks at me. Not interrogating. Not evaluating. Just looking. Like she’s trying to memorise this version of me.
“You look fantastic,” I tell her.
The words come from somewhere honest, somewhere untouched by the alcohol. Because she does. She always does. But tonight there’s something else layered over it. Something quieter.
She tilts her head slightly.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes linger on my face a second longer than necessary, and I realise she’s studying me.
“Have you been drinking?”