Back then, I had been too wrapped up in the warmth of his gaze to notice which dish he kept pushing toward me.
When I heard those words today, I couldn't help it.
I laughed. Not out of humor, but disbelief. The kind of laugh that slips out when something absurd brushes too close to the truth.
The clatter of plates, the sharp scent of hot sauce, the steady hum of late lunch chatter around us—all of it faded to the background. My voice broke through the stillness between us.
"Samuel, after all these years, we've practically eaten every dish on this menu. The only one I've never touched is the stir-fried lamb offal. I don't like organ meat. I never have. So tell me… was the person you just described really me?"
He didn't answer right away. His hand paused mid-air, utensils hovering above the last of the cold noodles.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with care, Samuel set his utensil down beside his plate. He exhaled a long, steady breath, the kind that carries the weight of something final.
"Since you're asking so directly," he said, "I'll tell you the truth."
He looked at me then, unblinking.
"You're right. It wasn't you. It was her."