I almost didn’t go that night. Work had drained me dry, and the idea of sitting alone at a restaurant felt exhausting — maybe even embarrassing. Takeout and Netflix in bed sounded easier, quieter. But something small and stubborn inside me whispered: dress up, go out, treat yourself like someone worth showing up for. So I did.
The restaurant glowed like a little greenhouse on the corner, filled with laughter and warm light. “Reservation for one,” I told the host, my voice steadier than I felt. He led me to a small table by the window — perfect view, soft music, candlelight flickering across the glass. I ordered a glass of wine, a salad, and the halibut the menu promised would “change your perspective on fish.”
It felt strange at first, sitting there alone. Everyone around me seemed paired up or grouped in happy clusters — couples laughing over shared appetizers, families clinking glasses, friends taking photos. My instinct was to shrink, to scroll through my phone, to pretend I wasn’t really alone. But then I caught my reflection in the window — calm, collected, present — and decided to just… sit. To be.
A few minutes later, my server returned with an apologetic smile. “Would you mind moving tables?” he asked. “We have a large family who’d like to combine these two spots.”Family games
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