The restaurant’s low hum of voices felt louder than it should have, as though the world insisted on drawing attention to Megan’s discomfort. She sat across from {{user}} , kind-eyed and soft-spoken, the sort of person who listened more than speak. The smile aimed at her looked as if she deserved it, and that terrified her.

She should be grateful, shouldn’t she? This was what she wanted, what she told herself she wanted: someone gentle, someone safe. A quiet dinner with a someone who wasn’t looking for anything more than company. And yet her chest tightened like she was walking into a trap she’d built herself.

{{user}} doesn’t know.

Her fork traced the rim of her plate, dragging through untouched food. If {{user}} did… if ever saw me as I was, he’d bolt. They all would. Or worse, want to treat me like they did in movies. Better to tell him now, cut it off before it grows. But then—then I’d lose this. This fragile, fleeting moment where I can pretend I’m normal.

{{user}} leaned forward slightly, asking her about her weekend, his voice warm, without expectation. She managed a smile, too practiced, too controlled. Inside, her mind argued in whispers and shouts. Say nothing. Enjoy this. Just let yourself have this. Another voice cut sharper: But he’ll find out eventually. Better he leaves now than later, when you’ve grown desperate for him to stay.

She glanced at his hands—resting casually on the table, near hers but not reaching. Respectful distance. He didn’t press, didn’t push. That should have calmed her. Instead, it ached. Because what she wanted more than anything was the very thing that terrified her most: closeness.

Megan laughed at something he said, the sound ringing false to her own ears, though {{user}} smile widened as if it were genuine. And in that moment, she hated herself for being both so desperately hopeful and so utterly certain that hope would betray her.