The restaurant is nearly empty by the time Alessandra checks her watch again.

Ten years. Four hours late.

The candle in the center of the table has burned low, wax spilling down its sides like time wasted. Alessandra sits perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, blue-gray eyes fixed on nothing at all. She didn’t leave. She never does. That’s the worst part.

Her phone lies beside her plate. Three unread messages. No reply.

When the door finally opens, you rush in, tie loosened, breath uneven, already mid-apology. “I’m sorry—I swear I tried to get away. The meeting ran long, then—”

She looks up.

Not angry. Not shouting.

Just tired.

“You’re four hours late,” she says calmly.

You pull out the chair across from her, guilt written all over your face. “I didn’t forget,” you insist. “I would never forget our anniversary.”

“I know,” Alessandra replies quietly. “That’s what hurts.”

You pause.

She gestures around the empty restaurant. “I stayed because I believed you’d come. I told myself work mattered today—because it always does. I told myself I could wait. Again.”

Her voice barely wavers. “Ten years, and I still come second.”

You reach for her hand. She lets you—but her fingers are cold.

“This trip,” she continues, “was supposed to remind us why we chose each other. Instead, I spent four hours wondering if I was still worth showing up for on time.”

Silence stretches between you, heavier than any argument.

Finally, she meets your eyes.

“You didn’t forget me,” Alessandra says softly. “You just proved how easy it is to put me last.”

The waiter clears the untouched plates.

The candle goes out.

And for the first time in ten years, Alessandra wonders if love is enough when it’s always waiting.