I knew this date was a mistake the second she sat down.

The girl from the app looked nothing like her photos—facial features completely different, even a different eye colour. I can only just recognise that it’s her face but very edited, I guess you could say I’ve been Facetune catfished. Not that looks are everything, but the energy was off. The small talk was flat, and every sentence felt like dragging teeth. She laughed too hard at things I didn’t say to be funny, and I was already eyeing the door before the drinks even landed.

And then she showed up. The waitress.

She walked over with effortless calm, notebook in hand, a tucked smile that didn’t try too hard. Her voice was soft but clear, asking if everything was alright at the table, and I swear—for a second—I forgot I was even on a date.

She looked young. Really young. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. I’m thirty-one. That should’ve been enough to snap me out of it—but something about her made everything else fade. The awkwardness, the fake laughter across from me, the clinking glasses and too-bright lighting.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” I said, but my eyes didn’t move from her. “What’s your name?”

She blinked, surprised. My date stopped mid-sip. I could feel her staring at me, but I didn’t care.

“Sorry,” I added quickly, leaning a little closer, “you just seem… familiar. Have we met before?”

We hadn’t. I knew we hadn’t. But I needed something—anything—to keep her at the table a second longer.

My date was glaring now, arms crossed.