He took me to a beautiful restaurant, the kind that glowed with golden light and soft music. From the first moment, it felt effortless—our laughter spilled like champagne, and the way his eyes lingered on mine made me believe I had finally found what I’d been waiting for. Finally… this is it, I thought.
Then he excused himself for the restroom. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. At thirty, the magic of the evening began to slip into unease. I was just about to call his name when a waiter approached, his face pale. “Miss, please come with me,” he whispered.
My pulse raced as I followed him down a narrow hallway. At the end, in a small, dimly lit room, I saw him—my date—slumped in a chair, his phone glowing faintly on the table. His eyes opened slowly, glassy with shock. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I thought tonight I’d tell you… but I just learned I don’t have much time left. I’ve been sick, and I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
The world tilted beneath me. All those years of glances, of words left unsaid, felt wasted in a single moment. Tears blurred my vision as I reached for his hand. “Then let’s stop wasting any more,” I said softly. “However much time you have… I’m here.” And in that quiet back room of a glittering restaurant, our first date began again. We didn’t know how many more we’d have, but we knew one thing for certain: we would no longer waste another second pretending forever was promised.