“We should celebrate,” Rowen said, wiping the last traces of grease from his hands with a thick, gray rag. “Properly. My treat. Burgers at the Top?”
Leaf’s heart performed a frantic, arrhythmic tap dance against his ribs. A celebration. A date. Our first date. The thought bloomed instantaneously, a hothouse flower of delusion, overwhelming and vibrant in the cool, concrete space of the garage. He could feel the phantom weight of the commission check in his pocket, a tangible proof of his worth that seemed to justify this sudden leap in his imagination. He had done it, he had succeeded, and this was his reward.
“Yeah, that sounds… that sounds great,” Leaf managed to reply, his voice squeaking into an octave higher than usual. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure while his mind was already picking out what he’d wear on their second date.
Rowen grinned, a simple, uncomplicated expression that was utterly oblivious to the five-act romantic drama currently premiering in Leaf’s head. “Cool. My sister, Sarah, might meet us there. She’s been wanting to meet the ‘weird artist guy’ who’s taken over my shop.”
The words ‘meet my sister’ echoed in the cavern of Leaf’s mind, each syllable a tolling bell of significance. This wasn’t just a date; it was an introduction. It was a clear, undeniable step toward something real, a presentation to the family for vetting and approval. He was spiraling upward into a giddy fantasy of acceptance before they had even shut the garage door, the scent of motor oil and metal dust replaced by the imagined aroma of a future he was already building brick by imaginary brick.
They arrived at The Red Top Diner, and the scent of fried onions and brewing coffee wrapped around Leaf like a comforting, nostalgic cloud. The red vinyl booths gleamed under the warm, yellowed lights, and the low murmur of conversation was a gentle hum against the clatter of cutlery. It was the kind of place that felt like it had existed forever, holding the quiet histories of a thousand other meals within its walls. Leaf’s anxiety, however, was brand new.
Sarah was already there, tucked into a corner booth and nursing a steaming mug of coffee. She had Rowen’s kind eyes, but her smile held a sharper, more perceptive quality that made Leaf feel instantly dissected. She stood as they approached, her movements fluid and confident, and her handshake was firm and cool.
“So you’re the famous Leaf,” she said, her gaze warm but undeniably analytical.
Leaf felt his carefully constructed persona of a cool, collected artist dissolve under that look. He felt transparent, as if she could see every frantic romantic calculation scrolling behind his eyes like a malfunctioning departures board. He offered a smile that felt slightly too eager, too wide, his sudden nerves making him feel clumsy and oversized in the cozy, intimate space of the booth.
The initial conversation, to Leaf’s profound relief, was surprisingly easy. Sarah, he learned, was a nurse, and her professional ability to put people at ease was on full display. She guided the discussion with a gentle hand, asking Leaf about his commission with questions that were thoughtful and specific, showing a genuine interest in his artistic process. She didn’t just ask what he did; she asked how he saw the world and how he translated that vision into something tangible.
Rowen, sitting beside Leaf, radiated a quiet, simple pride that felt like a warm pressure against his side. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was to add a detail about a piece he particularly liked or to clarify a technical aspect Leaf was explaining. He was a silent, solid presence, an anchor in the swirling currents of Leaf’s social anxiety.
“He made this old, busted-up transmission look like a sculpture,” Rowen said at one point, shaking his head with a look of sincere admiration. “I was going to scrap it, and he just… saw something else in it.”
For Leaf, every word was a confirmation, another piece of evidence for the case he was building in his mind. He wasn’t just some artist Rowen knew; he was his artist, a source of pride, someone to be shown off to family. He leaned into the conversation, emboldened, trying to be witty and charming, desperately seeking Sarah’s approval as if it were a final boss battle for the grand prize of Rowen’s heart.
The food arrived in a glorious, greasy pile of burgers and golden fries, the scent of salt and sizzling beef momentarily halting all conversation. They settled into the comfortable rhythm of eating, the talk replaced by the satisfying sounds of a shared meal. This was it. This was the moment. Leaf’s mind, which had been buzzing with a low-grade hum of romantic analysis, was now screaming at him.
He’d seen this scene play out in a hundred different movies, read it in a thousand books. It was a classic move, a clear and universally understood signal of intimacy and affection. His hand, trembling just slightly, reached for a perfectly crisp french fry from the shared basket in the middle of the table. He lifted it like a conductor’s baton, a loaded weapon of romantic intent.
He held it out towards Rowen’s mouth, a hopeful, terrified smile plastered on his face. The world seemed to slow to a crawl, the ambient noise of the diner fading into a distant, muffled roar. It was just him, Rowen, and this single, monumentally important spear of fried potato, a bridge between friendship and something more.
Rowen froze, his own burger halfway to his mouth. He stared at the proffered fry, his brow furrowed. His gaze then shifted from the fry to Leaf’s face, and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated bafflement. There was no flicker of romantic understanding, no coy smile, no playful acceptance—just a deep, fundamental confusion that seemed to radiate from him in waves.
“Dude,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of any subtext. “What are you doing?”
The words landed like two small, hard stones, shattering Leaf’s slow-motion fantasy into a million glittering shards of humiliation. From the corner of his eye, Leaf saw Sarah’s shoulders begin to shake as she quickly hid a smile behind her napkin, her attempt to conceal her laughter making it all the more obvious. A hot, crimson blush flooded Leaf’s face, starting at his neck and racing to the tips of his ears.
He stammered out the first absurd thing that scrambled its way into his panicked brain. “It’s, uh, for a new piece! A study… of fry form and… mouth-to-fry kinetics. The negative space. You know.”
Unseen by the mortified trio, in another booth across the diner, two phones lit up with the ghostly blue light of a clandestine conversation. Felix and Jude, on a dinner outing of their own, had a perfect, unobstructed vantage point for the unfolding catastrophe. Their presence was a stroke of terrible, wonderful luck.
Felix’s screen flashed with a new message: OMG. HE DID IT. THE ABSOLUTE MADMAN. A FRY OFFERING! 🍟❤️🔥
Jude’s reply was instantaneous, a testament to their long-practiced texting shorthand. I’m going to have an aneurysm. That is the most painful thing I have ever witnessed. ABORT. ABORT. 🤦
Felix’s thumbs flew across his screen, his excitement palpable even through the text. This is ROMANCE! This is CINEMA! You have no soul! This is the meet-cute part of the rom-com!
Jude’s response was a single, perfect GIF of a roaring dumpster fire, a succinct and brutal review of Leaf’s romantic overture. Their silent, frantic commentary provided a running score to Leaf’s public humiliation, a Greek chorus of vicarious shipping and second-hand embarrassment.
Sarah, bless her kind, nurse’s heart, rescued the moment from the brink of total social collapse. She smoothly changed the subject, turning to her brother with an air of genuine curiosity. She asked him about a difficult engine repair he’d mentioned on the phone earlier, her tone so natural and effortless it almost managed to erase the last thirty seconds of excruciating awkwardness.
Grateful for the lifeline, Leaf withdrew the offending fry and ate it himself, the taste of salt and shame mingling on his tongue. The potato felt dry and chalky in his mouth. He spent the rest of the meal mostly silent, replaying the moment in his head on a torturous loop, each viewing more cringeworthy than the last.
Rowen, for his part, seemed to have already forgotten the incident entirely. He launched into a detailed and enthusiastic explanation of a faulty alternator, completely oblivious to the emotional carnage that had just unfolded right in front of him. He used his hands to illustrate the flow of electricity, his focus absolute, his world once again reduced to the logical, understandable mechanics of an engine.
They finally left the diner, stepping out into the cool evening air that felt like a blessing on Leaf’s still-burning face. The walk to the parking lot was short, the neon sign of The Red Top casting a warm, buzzing glow behind them. Leaf, desperate to recover some semblance of his shattered romantic fantasy, subtly positioned himself to walk closer to Rowen.
As they approached Rowen’s hulking truck, parked under the lonely yellow glare of a streetlamp, Leaf made his second attempt of the night. He let his hand swing just a little wider than necessary, timing it perfectly so the back of his fingers brushed against the back of Rowen’s. The contact was feather-light, barely there, a ghost of a touch that lasted less than a second. To Leaf, however, it was a bolt of lightning.
His breath caught in his throat, and his entire nervous system lit up with the tiny point of contact. He held perfectly still as they walked, his arm rigid, waiting for a reaction, a sign, anything. He waited for Rowen to perhaps intertwine their fingers, or even just to acknowledge the touch with a glance, a small smile, some signal that the current had flowed both ways.
Nothing. Rowen didn’t react at all. He just kept walking, his stride even and unhurried as he dug in his pocket for his keys. The jingle of metal was the only sound that broke the silence between them. “It was good to see you, Sarah,” he called over his shoulder, his attention already on unlocking the doors.
The moment passed, completely unnoticed by anyone but Leaf. The disappointment was a sharp, physical pang in his chest, a hollow ache where hope had been moments before. He had offered a signal, a quiet and vulnerable question, and received only static in return. The world felt a little grayer.
But as he watched Rowen pull open the heavy truck door, a familiar and stubborn mechanism kicked in. Leaf’s relentless optimism, the engine of his entire romantic delusion, sputtered back to life. It began to rewrite the narrative, to patch the holes in his fantasy with the strong, flexible glue of self-deception.
He’s just shy, the internal monologue insisted, its voice gaining confidence with every step he took toward the passenger side. He’s not used to public displays of affection. The fry thing was too much, too soon, way too obvious. The new theory felt plausible, comfortable. This—this was subtle. He felt it. He’s just processing.
The bubble of his delusion, though dented and bruised from the night’s misadventures, inflated once more. It wobbled precariously but stubbornly refused to pop, shimmering under the pale moonlight, ready to carry him forward.
—
Experience the slow-burn, heart-wrenching story of Leaf, a digitally blocked artist, and his deeply complicated friendship with Rowen in The Art of Unrequited. This emotional contemporary romance and slice-of-life tale explores unrequited love, personal growth, and creative inspiration, perfect for fans of fiction, slow-burn romances, friends-to-lovers tension, and character-driven storytelling. Click here to read the whole story.
