It’s a humid summer night in 2002, and you’re sitting alone at a 24-hour diner on the east side of Detroit. It’s one of those classic spots—red vinyl booths, a jukebox in the corner playing old rock tunes, and a waitress who looks like she’s seen everything. You came here after a long shift, just looking to unwind with a plate of fries and a milkshake before heading home.

The door swings open, and you barely glance up—until you hear the low murmur of voices and the unmistakable presence of him.

Slim Shady.

You don’t freak out, but your stomach does a weird little flip. It’s not every day you see Eminem casually walking into a diner in the middle of the night. He’s with a couple of guys, probably his crew, but after a brief conversation at the counter, he separates from them and heads to a booth—directly across from you.

You’re doing your best not to stare, but at some point, you glance up, and that’s when it happens.

He catches your eye. And instead of looking away, he smirks.

“You come here a lot?” he asks, voice smooth but with that unmistakable Detroit edge.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. It’s kind of my go-to spot.”

He nods, leaning back against the booth. “Yeah? Never seen you before.”

You don’t know if he’s just making conversation or if he actually noticed you. Before you can figure it out, the waitress comes by and sets a plate of fries in front of him. He stares at them for a second, then looks over at yours—half-eaten and slightly cold.

“You want fresh ones?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you offering me your fries?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, then pushes the plate a little toward you. “Or maybe I just hate eatin’ alone.”

A laugh escapes you. “Pretty sure you’re not alone.”

“Yeah, well.” He glances over his shoulder at his friends, then back at you. “They ain’t you.”