He took me to a fancy restaurant. The chemistry was great the whole night—laughter spilled between us like champagne, and his eyes seemed to hold every answer I’d been searching for. I thought, Finally… this is it. Then he excused himself to the bathroom. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. At thirty minutes, my smile began to stiffen.The waiter approached, face pale as candle wax.
“Miss,” he said, his voice trembling, “you need to come with me… now.” My heart slammed against my ribs. I followed him through a side hallway, my mind flipping through possibilities—had he been hurt? Was this some cruel prank? The waiter stopped at a small, dimly lit room. There, I saw him—my date—slumped in a chair, head bowed. His phone lay on the table beside him, its screen still glowing.“Is he okay?” I gasped.
The waiter hesitated. “He’s… alive. But something happened. A message came through on his phone right before he left the table. He read it and collapsed here, whispering your name.”I stepped closer. His eyes opened slowly, glassy with shock. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I thought tonight was the night to tell you… but I found out I don’t have much time left.” The room spun. “Time… for what?”He gave a weak smile. “For anything. I just got my test results. I’ve been sick for a while, and I didn’t want you to see me this way.”
Tears burned my eyes. The weight of the moment crushed me—not because of the confession, but because of the years we had wasted, both too afraid to speak the truth.I took his hand. “Then let’s stop wasting any more. However much time you have… I’m here.” And in that quiet back room of a fancy restaurant, we began our first date again—not knowing how many more we’d get, but knowing we wouldn’t waste another second pretending we had forever.