It started like a normal day.
For once, I didn't overthink.
I ordered what everyone else was having.
I told myself: "Just this once. It'll be okay. I deserve a normal evening."
The waiter smiled. The food came. Everyone clinked plates.
I took the first bite — and for a few minutes, I forgot.
I forgot the labels, the questions, the careful planning.
I just ate. Like everyone else. Like a regular person at a regular table on a regular Saturday.
We laughed about old college stories. Someone spilled water. Someone ordered another round.
I felt light. I felt held. I felt — for the first time in months — normal.
Have you ever told yourself "just this once"?
Then somewhere between dessert and the bill, I felt it.
A small twist in my stomach. The kind I've learned to recognize before my brain even names it.
I told myself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just spice. Just the AC.
But by the time I got home, I knew.
I didn't even make it to bed before I was on the bathroom floor, knees against cold tiles, hand pressed to my mouth.
The shame came before the pain did.
Not the shame of being sick — the shame of believing, for one evening, that I could be like everyone else.
I lay awake replaying it. The shared oil. The same pan. The garnish I didn't ask about.
I don't even know which thing did it. Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them.
Maybe my body just remembered, even when I tried to forget.
The next morning my friends texted, "That was so fun, let's do it again soon!"
How long does it usually take you to recover?
I stared at the message for a long time.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to mean yes.
Instead I typed, "Definitely 🙂" — and put my phone face-down.
Three days later I was still recovering. Tired. Foggy. Sore.
Three days for one evening of pretending.
And the worst part isn't the pain.
The worst part is how much I miss the version of me who didn't have to think about any of this.
