Lately, something inside Evan had begun to shift.

From that brief moment in the department store  

to the night he stood outside the glass at the French restaurant—  

he’d started to understand something he’d been avoiding all along:

Sienna lived in a world he would never touch.

Every meeting between them had been a reminder.  

Of distance.  

Of class.  

Of how far outside her world he really stood.

Work, meanwhile, had only grown worse.  

The pressure never stopped.  

His manager’s voice now came sharper, clipped.

“Evan, why isn’t this report finished?”  

“These numbers aren’t tight enough. Fix them.”  

“You’ve been here long enough—start acting like it.”

He took it all quietly, head down,  

absorbing every word like water into cloth.  

At his desk, his fingers ached from the keys.  

The weight in his chest wouldn’t lift.

Back home, he collapsed onto the bed.  

The phone sat dark on the table.  

He used to open their chat every night, even if it was just to type *Good night.*  

Now, he left it alone on purpose.  

At first he resisted the urge to text.  

Then he stopped trying altogether.  

*This isn’t helping,* he told himself.  

*Better to end it than to keep waiting for another cold “Mm.”*

Sometimes he wondered if she’d notice his silence.  

But days passed—no messages, no calls.  

She didn’t reach out.  

Didn’t ask where he’d gone.  

That told him everything he needed to know.  

To her, he was no one worth missing.  

He laughed once, bitterly,  

though it felt more like something tearing inside.

Yet within that ache, another thought began to rise—  

not about her, but about himself.

There had always been a dream tucked away somewhere quiet.  

Not wealth, not ambition.  

Just a small, simple wish:  

to one day quit this job and open his own little restaurant.

Nothing fancy.  

A few wooden tables, a short menu, something warm to serve.  

A place where people could eat, smile,  

and say, *That was good.*

That, to him, was happiness.

He remembered saying it in college once—  

when everyone talked about joining big companies or civil service exams,  

he’d said, “I want to open my own restaurant someday.”

They all laughed.  

But he hadn’t been joking.

He’d been saving for years, bit by bit.  

His paycheck wasn’t much,  

but every month he’d set aside what little he could—  

a separate account, untouched.  

Even when things got tight, he never withdrew a cent.

That account was a seed.  

“One day,” he’d whisper to himself,  

“I’ll plant it.”

And maybe because of that dream, he now saw it clearly:  

He and Sienna were never meant to be.  

Her world was champagne and chandeliers;  

his was instant coffee and subway crowds.  

Even if he one day owned that little restaurant—  

would she ever walk through its door?

He didn’t know.  

He doubted it.

Late at night, he lay awake,  

the phone by his pillow, his hand motionless.  

Her reflection stayed in his head—  

that image through the glass, bright and unreachable.

And finally, he made his quiet decision.

*No more messages.*  

At least, not for now.