My friend Harriet had been pestering me about this for what felt like months before I finally gave in.

“He’s a very nice guy. No kids, no wife, no girlfriend, no boyfriend, nice flat, possibly a pet… jury’s still out on that… but what more could you possibly want?” she’d say, over and over.

Most of these speeches happened on our rooftop in Camden: Harriet cross-legged, cigarette between her fingers, and me beside her with a little box of overpriced macarons. Living together kept costs low, which was the only reason we could afford this romanticised London lifestyle. Harriet knew Camden like family lore — her dad had been a punk there in the late seventies.

She’d met this guy through her mum, apparently. He’d once helped her during a bad panic attack at a station café and had stayed calm, which Harriet’s mum highly praised. Harriet’s mum thought the guy would be perfect for Harriet, but she didn’t know her daughter didn’t swing that way. Harriet preferred girls.

I did not have such a reason to escape.

Which is how I ended up standing outside a very posh restaurant in South Kensington, trying to look like someone who went on blind dates at places with cloth napkins.

I didn’t know much about him, other than his name, {{user}}, and Harriet’s extremely generous review of his personality. “He just had a gentle energy,” was all she’d said.

Still, I trusted her heart, if not her judgment.

I took a breath and stepped inside. But the moment I entered, I slowed to a stop.

Near the entrance, a server was caught in the polite panic of customer service, trapped between a well-dressed couple and a man standing alone.

“Oh, come on, this gentleman is by himself,” the woman insisted, gesturing toward the lone man. “It’s our fifth anniversary.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” the server said, turning apologetically to the man. “We double booked the table. They called earlier. Completely our fault.”

The man sighed, the sound of someone swallowing inconvenience instead of making a scene. “Yes, alright. That’s fine.”

He turned to leave.

Then he saw me.

And stopped.

We just… looked at each other.

I remember asking myself a million times whether it was him. And the look on his face. It had to be a blind-date face. It was the face of a man thinking “please be her.”

“Sorry— you’re Sylvia?” he asked, gesturing slightly.

“It’s Sylvie, actually,” I corrected, lightheartedly. I didn’t want to come off as rude. “But yes. Harriet’s friend.”

“Oh.” Embarrassment flickered across his face. “Right. I’m {{user}}. Sorry, I’m awful with names. And apparently restaurants.”

I laughed. A real one, not the polite one.

“They double booked us,” he added, unnecessarily.

“Yes, I did gather that from the anniversary duel,” I said. “Honestly, we’ve been defeated by love.”

“That’s okay,” I added. “We can walk and find somewhere else. London’s full of places.”

Relief moved through him, like he’d been bracing for disappointment.

So we walked.

Walking meant I didn’t have to perform eye contact the whole time. I don’t honestly remember what we were talking about, but I remember it being good.

The place he chose was smaller, warmer. Soft lighting, close tables, the smell of olive oil and garlic. Latin European, simple.

I liked it instantly, which felt like a good sign, as if we had dodged a bullet.

He ordered. Water arrived. Bread followed.

And somehow, before careers or life plans or any of the terrifying résumé topics, we were deep in a debate about butter, which lasted for quite a bit.

Still, mid-laugh, I heard myself ask:

“So… this is such an average question, but a necessary one… what do you do for work?”

The words felt strangely formal after discussing dairy philosophy. But this was the moment where a pleasant stranger might become an actual person in my life.