For months I paid for dinners, gifts, and even his emergencies, until I accidentally overheard the cruelest taunt: “You’re just free food”; the worst part wasn’t the humiliation, but discovering that all his gestures had been an act.

I opened the app and saw that the dinner was scheduled for Saturday evening at half past seven. The policy of the restaurant stated that a cancellation without losing the deposit was only possible up to forty-eight hours in advance.

I checked the clock and realized that there were exactly forty-seven hours and a few minutes left before that deadline passed. I stayed perfectly still and refused to act impulsively because I wanted to confirm that I was not overreacting to the pain.

There was nothing left to interpret because I had heard everything I needed to hear with my own ears. I cancelled the reservation and felt a sense of relief when the screen confirmed that my refund was being processed.

Then I sent a single text message to Mitch that simply said “Correct” without providing any further explanation. I put my phone away and poured myself a glass of water while I sat in front of the cake like a professional reviewing a definitive medical study.