The night was meant to be a celebration, the kind you circle on the calendar weeks in advance. I had saved carefully, rehearsed what I would say, and chosen a restaurant that promised elegance—soft lighting, polished silverware, and the quiet confidence of a place that claimed to make moments memorable. My girlfriend arrived glowing with anticipation, and for a while, everything felt right. We laughed over appetizers and reminisced about how far we had come together. But as the evening unfolded, small disruptions crept in. The waiter seemed impatient, dismissive of our questions, and strangely insistent that we move tables due to a “mix-up” that was never fully explained. What should have been romantic started to feel uncomfortable, like a song played slightly off-key.