An older waiter noticed me.
“First date?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Flowers, nervous face, checking your hair three times. Pretty obvious.”
I admitted that Hannah didn’t know I used a wheelchair.
“What if she sees me and leaves?” I asked.
“Then she’s not worth your time,” he said. “But if you run away first, you’ll spend years wondering.”
His words gave me enough courage to enter.
Hannah was already sitting by the window. She looked up and smiled.
Then she saw me.
Her smile disappeared.
“No! Oh God. It can’t be you!”
“Hannah, please. I should’ve told you—”
She grabbed her bag and ran.
I sat there holding flowers, feeling like I’d attended my own funeral.
That night, I texted her an apology for not being honest. She didn’t respond.
The next morning, I remembered her words: It can’t be you.
Why had she reacted as if she knew me?
