Mid-April’s warmth softened Greenwich Avenue, the budding trees glowing under streetlights that cast golden pools on the damp pavement. The air smelled of fresh earth and the faint tang of city life—exhaust mingling with the sweetness of blooming magnolias. I walked to The Gilded Spoon for my evening shift, my sneakers scuffing the sidewalk, my mind a tangle of hope and hesitation. Two weeks had passed since my talk with Justin in the park, his words—You’re the one I see—replaying like a song I couldn’t shake. They stirred a fragile hope I was afraid to trust, like holding a glass too delicate to grip tightly. The TMZ and E! News reports about him and Xiamond at that Manhattan gala still lingered, their gold-gown images haunting my phone’s screen—her poised smile, his arm just close enough
