Three weeks of conversation.
Three weeks of hope.
And one unavoidable truth.
The Date He Was Sure Would End Badly
Evan arrived early. He chose a table near the café entrance—close enough to escape if humiliation became unbearable. His wheelchair felt heavier than usual. He rehearsed the moment in his head.
She’ll walk in. She’ll notice the chair. She’ll hesitate. Maybe she’ll fake a phone call. Maybe she won’t even sit down. He told himself not to care. But he did. Then the door opened. And instead of Hannah, a small girl walked in. She looked about five years old, with strawberry-blonde curls bouncing around her face and a yellow dress covered in stars. She scanned the room, spotted Evan—and climbed into the chair across from him without hesitation.
Evan froze.
Before he could speak, she grinned.
“Hi! You’re Evan, right?” she said brightly.
“My mom’s coming. She showed me your picture.”
He blinked.
“What…?”
The girl leaned closer, studying him with innocent curiosity. “She says you have kind eyes,” she continued, “even when you try to look serious.” Evan didn’t know whether to laugh or panic.