Page 129 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

She caught the server’s attention, then glanced back at me. “Any preferences?”

“Anything’s fine,” I said automatically.

She ordered two breakfast platters and coffee. It wasn’t until the server nodded and walked away that the social circuitry in my brain finally processed the sequence of events.

Wait. She just… I didn’t… She ordered for me. I let her order for me. I was supposed to—

“Oh, shit,” I blurted out, panic sharpening my voice. “I’m sorry, I would’ve ordered. I should’ve—it’s just that my brain—”

“…is all jumbled because you’re starving,” she finished.

I paused. Exhaled.

“Yes,” I admitted. “That. Exactly that.”

A smile slowly spread across her face, reaching all the way to her hazel eyes and warming them to green.

My eyes remained fixed on her, captivated by the change that had come over her face. The smile wasn’t the careful one she wore when she was being polite or the teasing curve of her lips. This one reached every corner of her face.

“So that’s what it looks like,” I murmured, too absorbed in her to remember she could hear me.

Her smile lingered, but her brows pulled together in confusion. “What?”

I met her gaze. “Your real smile.”

She blinked, the confusion in her expression deepening. “My real smile?”

I nodded, unable to look away now that I’d seen it. “Yeah. The one that crinkles the corners of your eyes.” My eyes traced her face before returning to hers. “The one that brings out all that green in your hazel eyes.”

My chest tightened with a tenderness I wasn’t prepared for.

“It’s beautiful.”

The air between us stilled, charged with a sudden, unexpected vulnerability. The sounds of the café faded into a distant hum. For a heartbeat too long, neither of us moved. Then, almost in unison, we broke the connection. I cleared my throat, looking down at the table. She turned her gaze toward the window, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

“You asked me a question,” I said, my voice a little rough, pulling us gently back.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on a sugar packet she was turning slowly between her fingers. “I did.”

“Right. Okay,” I started, gathering my thoughts. “So, when I’m working, I like to focus on just that. Completely.”

I met her gaze, willing her to understand the system. “If I’m eating, part of my brain is on the taste, the texture, not dropping crumbs. It requires a different kind of attention. It splits my focus. I feel like if I’m eating, I’m not fully hearing. So, if a meeting involves food, I don’t eat. I work.” I shrugged. “I can just eat later.”

She tilted her head, not judging, but processing. “What happens on a very long work day? Do you just… not eat the whole day?”

A flicker of memory surfaced before I could stop it—the sterile glow of library lights humming past midnight, a graveyard of empty coffee cups, my phone screen lighting up with ignored messages. The visceral memory of a protein bar eaten in three frantic bites between assignments. The half-sandwich left on my desk, forgotten until it was cold and unappealing.

She saw the truth flicker across my face before I could hide it. Her eyes widened just a fraction. “You actually do that, don’t you?”

I looked down at the table, tracing a grain in the wood with my thumb. “I don’t have to answer that,” I muttered.

The food arrived then, saving me.

She thanked the server, then her eyes returned to me, analytical. “So how does this work? Will you not be able to eat if I’m talking to you right now?”

I shook my head, already reaching for my fork. “No, that’s completely different. That meeting… the stakes were high. My company’s future was literally on the table. Decisions that could change everything. When I’m in something like that, my brain narrows.” I took a bite, the flavors exploding, grounding me. “Here? This is good. This is… pleasant. Easy. I don’t have to use my brain that much here.”

She leaned back, a smirk playing on her lips. “Oh, you’re definitely not using your brain here.”