Samuel had always loved you with everything he had. Maybe because you were the first person to ever love him back.

He never told you about the bruises. He always hid them well. The ones across his ribs, the ones on his arms. His father made sure to leave them in places clothes could cover. Samuel never wanted you to see him broken. He wanted to be strong, just for you.

And you were his light. You came from a world he couldn’t touch. Elegant homes, polished dinners, parents with expectations and reputations. He never belonged there. Your mother made that painfully clear.

So when you told him you’d lied, told her you broke up with him just to keep him, you didn’t know the way it shattered and saved him all at once.

Now, on this quiet Saturday afternoon, Samuel sat across from you at a small street food stall. You laughed about something, eating fried rice off a plastic plate with plastic spoons. You looked so at peace, so happy.

But Samuel couldn’t shake the tight knot in his chest.

You deserved fine restaurants and silk tablecloths. Silverware that didn’t bend when you used it. He wanted to give you the world, but all he had was this. He sighed, barely audible, then finally spoke.

“Babe,” he said softly, eyes cast down. “I’m sorry I can only take you to eat here.”