“You own a company worth billions, and this is your favorite restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked around.
“Because nobody here cares what my last name is.”
That answer told me more about him than any article ever could.
We talked for hours.
About childhood.
About dreams.
About things we had never told strangers.
I learned that Tristan loved old movies.
That he hated crowded parties.
That he kept every handwritten note his mother gave him.
He learned that I sang badly when I cooked.
That I secretly loved detective novels.
That I had a habit of apologizing even when things weren’t my fault.
“You do that often,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Take responsibility for everything.”
I looked away.
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Because the truth was complicated.
Because somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that being strong meant never needing anyone.
“I guess I’m used to handling things alone.”
