The silence between us outside that cafe was deafening. The “charming, smart” man who had just promised to take me to dinner stood there with the same look of absolute horror reflecting in his eyes. He recognized me instantly; I looked exactly like my mother.
“Maya?” he whispered, his voice cracking. The smooth, confident tone I had fallen in love with behind the screen was gone, replaced by the shaky realization of a catastrophic mistake.
I couldn’t speak. My mind was racing through the last three hours of conversation. We had talked about our favorite childhood memories—I had mentioned the old oak tree in my backyard, and he had laughed, saying he used to climb one just like it. I thought it was “fate.” In reality, it was a shared history.
We didn’t go to dinner. Instead, we sat on a park bench, keeping a very deliberate three-foot gap between us. The romantic tension that had built up behind the screen had vanished, replaced by a thick, awkward layer of familial obligation.