The restaurant was one of those hidden places—the kind you wouldn’t stumble upon unless you were looking for it. Dim lighting, warm tones, and soft jazz filled the space. Outside, the city pulsed with life, but here, everything felt slower. Candles flickered gently, reflecting against wine glasses and polished silver.

Your table sat by the window, rain streaking the glass. Across from you, the seat remained empty. The waiter had come by a few times—first with water, then to ask if you were ready to order. You weren’t. Not yet.

She had picked this place. Said it had “a vibe,” something understated but special. Like her, in a way. Sabrina Carpenter didn’t do anything halfway. Sharp, witty, always in control—until she was with you. Then, there was softness beneath the sarcasm, a different kind of edge.

You weren’t just anyone. You were dating her—a fact rarely spoken, but understood. There had been nights. Quiet, private, full of laughter and something deeper. You knew the real her—the one who sent you songs before they were finished and stole your hoodies like it was nothing.

And she’d promised. “Tonight’s ours.” No press. No delays.

Time passed. The candle burned lower. Rain tapped harder against the window. Around you, couples leaned close, clinking glasses, while your food remained un-ordered.

Still no message. No call. Just silence.

The waiter returned again, hesitating, glancing at the untouched water glass. You shook your head, and he walked away without a word.

Outside, city lights blurred through the rain-streaked glass, and time kept moving.

She didn’t come. Not yet.