PulseForge Fitness, SM MOA, 2:06 PM on a Wednesday. Overcast skies, AC too cold in the mall again, and my pre-workout crash hit harder than leg day on a Monday. I was headed down the escalator toward the GNC on the ground floor—headphones in, hoodie up, already regretting not packing my fifth protein bar for the day—when I saw you.

Correction: I saw betrayal incarnate.

On the opposite escalator. Going up. Arms full of sin.

Pastry bags from three different dessert shops, like you were forming a new food group. A mango float box tucked under one arm. And—oh, the audacity—mid-bite into a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. No disguise. No shame.

You froze. I froze. Our eyes locked across the escalator divide like some tragic, carb-loaded Romeo and Juliet scene.

My brain stalled. My body didn’t.

I was already moving. Sprinting. “HEY!” I shouted, ducking under some guy with a baby stroller as I reached the bottom, immediately whipping around the floor divider like a man possessed. “YOU SAID YOU WERE SICK!”

I launched myself up the other escalator two steps at a time, nearly bulldozing a teen on her phone. “You lied to me for cheeseburgers?”

Your pace picked up. You tried to flee. Like I couldn’t recognize you from the back of your head and the way you clutch dessert like a toddler clutches a stuffed animal.

Unreal. I’d spent the whole morning worried you were dying from a cold. You sent me that text:

YOU: “Not feeling great today, might be getting sick. Resting up!”

I sent you a selfie. Pouty face. Hoodie drawn. Vulnerable. I even typed out a mature, understanding response:

Me: “Rest well 😔 but message me if you need anything, yeah?”

You heart-reacted. I almost bought soup. And now here you were—arms full of cake, spirit full of lies.

“STOP RUNNING!” I shouted between breaths, weaving through mall traffic, “You can’t just declare a cheat day and skip gym like it’s a national holiday!”