No second glance.
He tossed them in.
Just like that.
The same way he had thrown away our five years.
Effortlessly.
Like they meant nothing at all.
At the restaurant, a quiet place on neutral ground where the Family sometimes held private tables, he ordered several dishes without asking.
Most of them were our usual favorites.
The kind we always shared.
The kind tied to memories. Late-night laughter, old movies on the couch, lazy Sundays where time seemed to slow down and the world outside, with all its blood and obligation, couldn't reach us.
For a moment, it almost felt familiar.
Almost.
But then I saw it.
One more dish.
Bitter melon with scrambled eggs.
The one I hated the most.
He knew that.
He had always remembered.
Every little thing.
Until now.
My appetite disappeared completely, like something inside me had quietly snapped. The smell of the food, the low conversation at nearby tables, even the old Sinatra record playing through the restaurant's speakers all felt distant. I didn't feel like forcing myself anymore, didn't feel like pretending everything was normal.