"I've lost some very important people in my life," he continued, his voice now trembling slightly. "There was a time when I felt so broken that I thought I'd never be able to move forward, that I'd never be able to love or trust anyone again. And there are still moments when I wonder if I really can, if I'm ready for something real."
Diana felt a knot in her stomach. She knew this was the kind of revelation that could change everything—that opened old wounds and exposed scars time doesn't always heal.
She wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat.
"Do you feel that way now?" she finally asked, in a whisper, afraid of pushing too hard.
He lowered his gaze, as if the past weighed heavily on him.
"Not with you. With you, it's different. But that's what scares me the most."
Then, without thinking too much, he took her hand, squeezing it gently—a small gesture, but one that carried everything he felt in that moment.
He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw something she had never seen in anyone else—a pain he had learned to silence, to mask beneath a facade of normalcy.
"Thank you for trusting me," she said at last, her voice soft and warm. Her words were simple, but sincere.
"You don't have to explain anything you don't want to. I have my own wounds too, my own fears. I don't expect you to be perfect. I just want you to be yourself."
"And what if that's not enough? What if I'm not what you're hoping for?" he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself.
"Life isn't a bed of roses, and you're not alone in this," she replied, gently brushing the back of his hand with her thumb. "Maybe that's the only thing that really matters."
He looked at her, and a hint of relief and tenderness crossed his face, as if her words had lifted part of the burden he carried.
It was a relief they seemed to share—Diana, too, carried her own fears, her disappointments, and the scars time had tried to erase without fully succeeding.
It was as if, in that moment, they saw themselves reflected in one another—recognizing their own emptiness and understanding that maybe, together, they could find some peace.
The conversation grew even more intimate. That night, under the soft light of the restaurant, they talked about their fears and dreams, about their failures and the times they had wanted to give up.
"For years I thought I was incapable of truly loving," he admitted, playing with the edge of his napkin.
"I always kept a distance, as if that could protect me from everything."
"After so many failed relationships, I came to believe that love just wasn't meant for me," she confessed, staring into the bottom of her glass. "That something in me ruined everything, keeping me from finding that kind of love… like I was destined to end up alone."
He looked up. "And now?"
"Now I don't know. I'm afraid… but I also want to keep going."
It was a raw, honest conversation, in which they both bared their souls with a courage they hadn't known they possessed.