After three years of shy smiles at work, Daniel finally asked me out. We went to a candlelit Italian restaurant,

full of truffle aroma and soft chatter. Conversation was easy — laughter, shared secrets — until he excused himself for the bathroom.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. At thirty, a pale-faced waiter approached. “Miss, please come with me,” he said.

My heart pounded as I followed him through the kitchen to a dim back room. Daniel sat slumped in a chair, a paramedic by his side.

“He had a sudden allergic reaction,” the waiter explained. “Likely from the seafood appetizer.” Daniel had mentioned

he didn’t like shellfish, but never that he was allergic. He looked up, weak but smiling. “Didn’t want to ruin our night,” he whispered.

At the hospital, hours later, I held his hand. “You don’t have to hide pain to make people happy,” I told him. He nodded softly.

That night I realized love isn’t about perfect dates or grand gestures. It’s about showing up when things go wrong,

staying when life gets messy. And I knew I wanted to keep showing up for him — for as long as he’d let me.