Saturday had been circled on your calendar for weeks. Not for a game, not for a meeting, not for another appearance that demanded you look sharp and smile until your jaw hurt—but for her. For Tate.

Your schedules had both been a mess lately: your practices, travel, and media obligations colliding with her marathon studio sessions, rehearsals, and the unpredictable hours of a rising star. Every attempt at dinner or even a quiet night in had been postponed, rescheduled, or dissolved under the weight of exhaustion. You missed her—missed the version of your relationship that felt simple, easy, close.

So you’d made a choice. You cleared your weekend. You let your manager know you’d be unreachable Saturday night, told teammates not to call, and stacked your endorsements earlier in the week. If she was tied up in the studio all day, fine. You’d wait until she was finished, and then it would be just the two of you—dinner, laughter, maybe a walk afterward if the city air wasn’t too heavy.

You picked the restaurant carefully. A little upscale, but not pretentious. Somewhere you knew she liked, with a tucked-away booth that gave you both some privacy from the watchful eyes that always seemed to follow you. When you arrived, you asked for that booth and sat down, your heart steady, hopeful.

At first, waiting felt natural. She was always late—lost in the rhythm of her music, pouring herself into whatever lyric or melody had her attention. You ordered water, checked the menu, scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

But twenty minutes passed.

Then thirty.

The waiter—someone who had followed your career long enough to recognize you instantly—kept approaching with careful politeness. “Would you like to order now, or wait a little longer?” You smiled tightly, telling him you’d wait. It wasn’t unusual. She was probably just caught in traffic, or still wrapping up at the studio.

You sent her a message: Hey, I’m here. Can’t wait to see you.

No response.

You waited.

Another ten minutes, another refill of your water glass. You dialed her number, pressing your phone to your ear. One ring. Two. Four. Voicemail. You left a message, light but a little desperate around the edges: “Hey, just making sure you’re okay. I’m at the place. Can’t wait to see you.”

The waiters were watching now. They tried to hide it, but you could feel their glances from the corner of the room, whispering to one another as they passed. The star athlete, sitting in a booth by himself, checking his phone over and over. It was the kind of thing that didn’t need an audience, but it had one anyway.

Your chest grew heavier with every passing minute.

By the fifty-minute mark, your smile had hardened into something you didn’t even recognize. You fiddled with the edge of the menu, checked your phone compulsively, sent another message that went unread. Every laugh from another table felt sharper, every pair of eyes on you felt like a spotlight.

Still, you stayed. Because you believed in her. Because Tate was worth waiting for.

But when an hour had come and gone, and the booth across from you remained achingly empty, something inside finally shifted. Not anger, not yet. Just the cold weight of disappointment pressing into your ribs.

You stood, murmured a quiet thank-you to the waiter who had been kind enough not to pity you out loud, and left. The night air felt heavier than it should have, your footsteps echoing against the pavement as you shoved your hands into your pockets.

Your phone stayed silent.

And as you walked away from the restaurant, the ache in your chest deepened—not just from being stood up, but from the dawning realization that love wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely.