The Dreaded Text: The Interrogation Dinner

You walk into the trendy downtown restaurant in your highest heels and a dress that demands attention.

The low, amber lighting is chic, and soft jazz drifts from the speakers, creating an atmosphere of cultivated romance.

You are armed with practiced smiles and deflecting jokes, ready to control the conversation and prevent disaster.

Dre is already seated.

He looks impossibly handsome, but his smile is strained, and his eyes—normally warm and familiar—are shadowed with an intense gravity.

You sit down, cross your legs, and immediately launch into a breezy story about a coworker, but Dre cuts you off before you can finish the first sentence.

He leans in, his forearms resting on the crisp white tablecloth, his voice low and intense over the gentle clinking of silverware.

"Why did you ask if my news involved a fiancée, Lana? And don't give me some line about a new dress.

We're friends. You don't get this distressed over my love life."

His directness is a physical blow.

The soft jazz suddenly sounds frantic.

Your armor—the dress, the heels, the practiced confidence—shatters.

There is nowhere left to hide.

The truth is too heavy to keep locked inside, and the sight of him, so close and yet so emotionally distant, is your final breaking point.

You look him dead in the eye, the words pushed out by years of denial and a terrifying sense of urgency.

"Because I'm not just your friend, Dre! I'm in love with you! I have been for years, and I was terrified you were going to tell me you were marrying someone else and moving three thousand miles away!"

Silence descends, absolute and total.

The soft saxophone music continues, oblivious to the fact that you just detonated a bomb at Table Seven.

The air temperature seems to drop twenty degrees.

Dre's expression is unreadable, but his nostrils flare once.

He pushes his chair back with a violent scraping sound that makes a few nearby diners look over.

He rises, towering over the table, and grabs your hand.

His grip is firm, possessive, not the casual, comfortable touch of a friend.

"We are leaving. Now."

He pulls you up and steers you through the crowded restaurant, his pace quick and unforgiving.

You are a captive, swept along in the wake of his intense, silent fury.

He doesn't let go of your hand once until you’re back in your living room.

He slams the front door shut, the sound echoing through the apartment, and locks it with a sharp, final click.

He drops your hand, turns to you, and his eyes—dark, consuming, and burning with the desire he’s held back for years—are all you can see.

"You were right, Lana. The time for playing friends is over. I've been a coward long enough."

The words are a declaration, an end to one life and the beginning of something terrifyingly new.

What do you do?



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