My Usual

He ordered my usual for another girl. That's how I knew.

His name was Marcus. Eighteen months. We had a Deliveroo account we shared, because "it's easier." A Friday tradition. Sushi, extra ginger, no wasabi on mine because I once cried at a restaurant and told the waiter it was the horseradish. He's never let me forget it.

On the night it happened, he'd said he was "working late." I believed him. I'm not stupid, I just trusted him. That's the part that stings. Trust isn't stupidity. It's just love with its eyes closed.

I was lying on my sofa, watching a bad reality show, when my phone buzzed. An email from Deliveroo. "Your order is on its way!"

I hadn't ordered anything.

I opened it. Salmon nigiri. Spicy tuna roll. Edamame. Extra ginger. Wasabi on the side, specifically labelled in the notes: "No wasabi on the nigiri. She doesn't like it."

She.

And then, in the same box, a note he'd typed out himself. "Extra napkins, no cutlery, we like using our hands."

That was OUR line. We said it every time. Ours. A silly little rule from our first night in.

He'd not just ordered my food. He'd ordered my favourite way to eat.

I sat there, in the dark, with nothing in front of me but a silent phone.

He didn't even bother to learn what she liked.

He just handed her mine.