As usual, the table was filled with dishes.
After I sat down, he smiled and pointed at the plate of charred lamb hash.
"Knew you'd show up. You must be hungry. Eat plenty."
Then he added, "I remember the day we first met. You inhaled half that plate by yourself. So I order it for you every anniversary."
He was right. Today marked our fifth anniversary.
This was the diner where he had taken me the night he saved me, when we had shared our first late-night meal.
The place was simple, but the food was excellent.
It was here that I had agreed to his confession.
Every year afterward, we returned for our anniversary, lingering in those sweet memories.
Back then, I had been too wrapped up in the warmth of his gaze to notice which dish he kept pushing toward me.
When I heard those words today, I couldn't help it.
I laughed. Not out of humor, but disbelief. The kind of laugh that slips out when something absurd brushes too close to the truth.
The clatter of plates, the sharp scent of hot sauce, the steady hum of late lunch chatter around us—all of it faded to the background. My voice broke through the stillness between us.
"Samuel, after all these years, we've practically eaten every dish on this menu. The only one I've never touched is the stir-fried lamb offal. I don't like organ meat. I never have. So tell me… was the person you just described really me?"
He didn't answer right away. His hand paused mid-air, utensils hovering above the last of the cold noodles.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with care, Samuel set his utensil down beside his plate. He exhaled a long, steady breath, the kind that carries the weight of something final.
"Since you're asking so directly," he said, "I'll tell you the truth."
He looked at me then, unblinking.
"You're right. It wasn't you. It was her."
And just like that, he lifted his hand and pointed toward the entrance.
I turned to look.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I quickly turned around.
But there was no one standing there.
Samuel wasn't pointing at a person at all. His finger aimed at the crowded photo wall, at a candid picture of the two of us taken years ago.
He stared at it for several seconds, his expression softening with a quiet, almost bittersweet affection, before he looked back at me with a helpless smile.
"Leslie… come on. This place? It's ours. You really think I'd bring someone else here?"
He gave a soft laugh, half-shrugging.