The silence that followed was suffocating. Around us, the restaurant carried on — laughter, clinking glasses, the scrape of forks — but all I could hear was the thud of my own heartbeat. I checked my banking app under the table. Balance fine. But the embarrassment lingered.
“I’ll call the bank tomorrow,” I forced a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Probably a fraud alert or something.”
We left some cash for the coffee and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the city glowing under streetlights. I wanted to say something to fix the moment, but shame had lodged in my throat.
Then I felt a hand on my arm.
I turned. It was the server, her breath visible in the cold. She leaned in and whispered, “Sir… I lied.”
Before I could react, she slipped a folded receipt into my hand and hurried back inside.
I opened it. The total was circled. Next to it, in looping handwriting, one word: PAID.
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