We went to a café, sat down, and placed our order. That’s when I noticed the waitress looked strangely familiar—but she was cold, almost hostile. She tossed the menus onto the table and spoke sharply. Confused, I asked, “Do we know each other?” Her expression shifted for a second before she looked away.
My husband raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. I tried to ignore it, telling myself she was just having a bad day, yet something about her attitude felt personal. The tension lingered like a memory I couldn’t quite grab.
When she returned with our drinks, she set them down too hard, tea nearly spilling. My husband whispered, “What was that?” I had no answer. But then the waitress asked quietly, “You really don’t remember me, do you?”
I froze. “Should I?”
“We went to school together,” she said. “You were always with your group of friends.” She didn’t say popular, but it hung in the air. That’s when it clicked—she had been the quiet girl in the back of the class, bright but overlooked. Not ignored out of cruelty, but out of thoughtlessness.
“You were nice,” she said, “but you never really saw me.”
A lump rose in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You deserved more kindness.”
The tension softened. Before we left, I thanked her again—for the honesty. Walking home, I told my husband, “She reminded me everyone has a story… even the people we forget to notice.”
