I knew it was over the night the waiter forgot my name—
the same one who used to greet me
like sunlight walking in with good stories and better perfume.
The soup was still hot, the music still low,
But the flavor… gone.
The universe had quietly changed the chef.
Funny how endings don’t always make announcements.
Sometimes they just dim the lights
and let you taste the shift.
The old café, the weekend hangout,
the rooftop bar where laughter once spilled like champagne—
They all start to feel like museums of your former self.
You smile at the memories,
but even your favorite drink doesn’t hit the same.
It’s divine timing at its most mischievous—
pulling you away mid-toast,
reminding you that growth has a curfew.
That no matter how good the dessert,
you’ve already digested the lesson.
I used to love it—order another round,
pretend I was still hungry for what no longer fed me.
But now I laugh, leave a generous tip,
and walk out under the night sky,
knowing the universe has my next reservation waiting
at a place where the menu speaks my new language.
See, divine timing doesn’t run late.
It doesn’t need GPS.
It shows up precisely when your soul is ready
to stop ordering from the “used to” section.
So I say grace for what was served—
for the friends, the flavors, the echoes of laughter.
Then I push back the chair,
smooth my dress, and rise with poise,
smiling like someone who knows:
The table was lovely,
the meal divine,
but darling—
You’ve outgrown the restaurant.
And in this season,
You are the feast,
And you’re right on time. ✨
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