Mabel had been excited for this date — more excited than she’d ever admit. She’d spent an hour in front of her cracked bathroom mirror, fixing her hair with a brush missing half its bristles, wiping her eyeliner with her sleeve, and reminding herself not to look nervous. She lived in a tiny studio that smelled faintly of smoke and cheap incense, with walls thin enough to hear her neighbors fighting every night. Her job barely paid anything, and every paycheck disappeared as quickly as it came — food, rent, cigarettes, and sometimes… pills to get her through the week.

She didn’t want you to know that. You were the first good thing she’d had in a long time. Clean. Kind. Uncomplicated. She didn’t want your eyes to change, didn’t want pity or disappointment. So she agreed to the date, told herself she’d “figure it out,” and prayed the restaurant wasn’t expensive.

When you smiled at her across the table that night — the soft kind of smile that made her want to be better — she felt her stomach twist with guilt. You looked effortlessly put together. She looked like she had gotten ready in a hurry, because she had. But she made you laugh, and somehow that made the world feel a little less broken.

The restaurant wasn’t fancy — not even close — but to Mabel, it looked like the kind of place she never stepped into unless she was bussing tables in the back. Red vinyl booths, dim yellow bulbs, old wood floors that creaked under every step. For you, it was cozy. For her, it was a mirror of everything she couldn’t give you.

You didn’t notice the way she kept smoothing her hands on her jeans, or how her leg bounced beneath the table. You didn’t see how she kept checking your expression every time the waiter came by, like she was trying to read what “normal” looked like.

To you, this was just a first date. To her, this was a disaster waiting to happen.

Mabel had chosen this place because she thought it looked “cheap but cute,” something that wouldn’t raise questions. She knew she couldn’t let you see the reality — the hours she slept in someone else’s attic for rent, the money she’d blown trying to numb herself, the way she could barely buy groceries most weeks. She knew how she looked on the outside: bold, sharp, irresistible. But you didn’t see the broken parts. That was the point.

Still, the fear simmered in her eyes like a bruise that never healed.

When the bill came, everything inside her froze.

The waiter slid the little leather folder between you two like it was a bomb. Mabel stared at it too long. Her jaw tightened, shoulders stiffened. She didn’t reach for it. She couldn’t. Her hands stayed locked together in her lap, nails digging into her skin.

You looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, you saw the panic she was trying so hard to bury. Her face was calm, but her eyes… her eyes were a storm. Shame. Fear. A quiet plea.

”—It’s fine.”

She cut in quickly, too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’ll get it. I got it.”