The restaurant was perfect. Dim lighting, soft music, candles flickering against glasses of wine. I had been waiting all week for this—our fifth anniversary. I wanted romance, reassurance, the kind of night that reminded us why we’d chosen each other. And for a while, it felt exactly right. We laughed, we toasted, we held hands across the table.
Then the waiter came to take our order.
“I’ll have the truffle risotto,” Ethan said easily, smiling at the menu before handing it back. “It’s always been my favorite.”
I froze. Because it wasn’t his favorite. It was hers.
I knew it the second the words left his mouth. Years ago, at a mutual friend’s dinner, I’d watched Leah—his ex—light up over that exact dish. “Nothing compares to truffle risotto,” she’d gushed, twirling her fork, her eyes glinting. Ethan had teased her about it, said it smelled too strong. He never ordered it. Not once. Not until tonight.
The waiter left. My pulse quickened. “Since when do you like truffle risotto?” I asked, forcing a light tone.
He shrugged. “Tastes change.”
“Tastes,” I repeated quietly, staring at the candle between us. But my mind was racing. This wasn’t just about food. This was about memory. The kind of memory that sticks when it shouldn’t.
When the dish arrived, he leaned forward, inhaling like it was nostalgia on a plate. I couldn’t eat. My steak sat untouched while I watched him savor every bite. It wasn’t just the way he ate it—it was the way he closed his eyes, the small smile tugging at his lips, like he was somewhere else. With someone else.
Finally, I couldn’t take it. “Do you think about her?” I blurted.
His fork froze. “What?”
“Leah. Do you think about her when you do things like this?”
His face hardened. “You’re overreacting.”
“Am I?” My voice trembled, louder now. A couple at the next table turned their heads. “You never liked risotto. You used to mock it. And now, on our anniversary, you order it like it’s your favorite? Do you have any idea how that feels?”
Ethan set down his fork, his jaw tight. “It’s just food.”
“No,” I said sharply, tears burning my eyes. “It’s not just food. It’s a reminder. It’s proof that she’s still here—living in your memory, living at our table.”
The silence stretched. The candle flickered between us. And for the first time, I wondered if I was fighting against someone who wasn’t even in the room but would always be present.
We made it through dessert in silence, the sweetness bitter in my mouth. When the bill came, I let him pay, but something between us felt like it had already been spent.
That night, as I lay awake next to him, his steady breathing filling the dark, I realized the cruelest betrayals aren’t always loud. Sometimes they arrive quietly, tucked into the details—the meals chosen, the words repeated, the ghosts that won’t let go.
Final Thought
Love is tested not just by grand gestures, but by the small choices that reveal where our hearts wander. That anniversary dinner showed me that sometimes the person you’re with may be sitting across from you, but their appetite—maybe even their soul—still belongs to someone else.
