One day, a woman named Hannah sent me a photograph of a badly burned cake she’d made using one of my recipes. Her message made me laugh for the first time in weeks. She was twenty-nine, worked as a nurse, loved old comedies, and hated raisins. Over four months, messages became phone calls, and friendship turned into something deeper. I told her about my grandmother, childhood, and dreams, but never mentioned my wheelchair. After Rachel left, I was terrified of watching another woman walk away.

When Hannah asked when I’d take her on a real date, I chose a cozy café and decided to explain everything face-to-face. An older waiter noticed my nerves and encouraged me not to leave before giving her a chance. I rolled inside with flowers, only to watch Hannah recognize me and flee. That night, I apologized by message. She didn’t reply. I kept checking my phone, hoping she’d explain.