My crush, Daniel, finally asked me out after three years of shy smiles and stolen glances at the office. He took me to a candlelit Italian restaurant, the kind where the waiters wear crisp white shirts and the air smells of truffle oil. Conversation flowed effortlessly — we laughed, shared secrets, and I felt like maybe this was the start of something real. Everything seemed perfect until he excused himself to use the bathroom.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. At thirty, I felt my stomach knot. Just as I was about to text him, a waiter approached, his face pale and voice trembling. “Miss, you need to come with me,” he said softly. My heart pounded as I followed him through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway. Every step felt heavier, like my legs didn’t belong to me anymore.