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My Parfait, His Chopsticks

After the party, everything felt a little slower—like the city was exhaling. The music had faded, the heels had come off, and we ended up in a quiet restaurant tucked between glowing streetlamps and the hum of passing cabs. I ordered a strawberry parfait for myself. No sharing. No guilt. Just layers of whipped cream, sponge cake, syrupy strawberries, and enough sweetness to undo an entire night of champagne. Noor, of course, claimed he wasn’t hungry.
That lasted maybe ten minutes.
While I was savoring the first few bites, he sat across from me stealing glances at the menu, then at my parfait, then back at the menu. I caught him eyeing my spoon like it held all the secrets of the universe. “You sure you don’t want something?” I asked. “I’m fine,” he said. “Really.” Cut to ten minutes later: I was full, sipping tea, and Noor was casually finishing off my leftovers like it was his personal reward for patience. He didn’t ask. He just slid the glass over, careful not to disturb the last strawberry clinging to the rim, and started eating like he’d been invited. Like it was ours.

“You always do this,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You always leave the best part,” he replied, not even looking up. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted him to take it. Maybe that was the point. We didn’t talk about the party. Not the way he looked at me during the slow songs. Not the way my father pulled me aside with concerned eyes. Not the way I found Noor again anyway, like gravity was playing favorites. No—this was the quiet part. Just us, a half-eaten dessert, and a moment that tasted a little sweeter than I expected.

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