The story opens with what feels like the perfect beginning to a romance. When Eric insists on paying for their first date, the narrator believes she has finally met a true gentleman. He arrives with a bouquet of roses, a small, thoughtful gift, and conversation that flows as naturally as a melody. Every romantic comedy cliché seems to come alive before her eyes—the charming smiles, the easy laughter, the sense of connection that makes everything else fade into the background. For the first time in a long while, she feels that spark of possibility. In her mind, she can already hear her best friend, Mia, teasing her with a triumphant “I told you so,” since Mia was the one who orchestrated the entire setup.
Before that evening, the narrator had not been particularly open to the idea of being set up. Mia, however, was relentless, convinced that she knew her best friend’s heart better than anyone else. She assured her that Eric was different—kind, genuine, and looking for something real. What ultimately swayed the narrator was the fact that Chris, Mia’s boyfriend, vouched for him. Chris’s word carried weight; he wasn’t someone who praised lightly or played matchmaker without good reason. His quiet approval became the deciding factor, dissolving the narrator’s doubts just enough for her to say yes. Even then, she approached the situation with cautious curiosity rather than full-fledged excitement.
Before agreeing to meet, she asked Mia for a photo, wanting to at least see the man she was being nudged toward. When the image appeared on her phone, she was pleasantly surprised. Eric had an easy, confident smile, neatly combed hair, and the kind of clean-cut appearance that radiated warmth without trying too hard. He looked like someone dependable, someone who might actually be as sincere as he seemed. With a small admission—“He’s cute”—the narrator gave in, prompting Mia’s squeal of triumph. Soon after, a few friendly text exchanges with Eric set the plan in motion: dinner at a new Italian restaurant by the river, elegant yet comfortable, a place that seemed to promise the right balance between intimacy and ease.
As the evening arrived, anticipation fluttered in her chest. Determined not to appear overly eager, she showed up five minutes early, lingering outside while subtly checking her reflection in her phone’s screen. The setting sun painted the river gold, and for a brief moment, she let herself imagine how the night might unfold. When she spotted Eric approaching, her heart skipped a beat. He looked just as he had in his photo—stylish but approachable, confident without arrogance. There was an undeniable steadiness in his stride, the kind that put her at ease before a single word was spoken.
What she hadn’t expected, however, was the bouquet of roses in his hand. The gesture took her by surprise, walking the delicate line between charming and old-fashioned. Yet instead of finding it excessive, she found it touching. It was rare, she thought, to meet someone who still believed in small, romantic gestures. The flowers, coupled with his warm smile, softened whatever hesitation lingered in her heart. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the moment—to feel seen, to feel chosen. The evening was off to a dreamlike start, the kind that could easily make someone believe in fate.
By the time they sat down to dinner, her nerves had melted into quiet excitement. Eric’s conversation was engaging, his laughter genuine, and his attention unwavering. Every small detail—the setting, the gestures, the easy rhythm of their interaction—seemed to align perfectly. Still, beneath the glow of candlelight and possibility, a faint whisper of caution lingered. The narrator couldn’t help but wonder if anyone could truly be this perfect, or if first impressions sometimes shine too brightly to last. Yet, in that moment, she chose not to overthink it. She leaned into the promise of the evening, savoring the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something real.
