I love to cook. It’s where my brain quiets—fire low, knives sharp, patience filling the house. Cooking is how I say I see you. Nida, my girlfriend, rarely ate what I made. She’d shrug, say meat felt heavy. Still, I tried.
When my coworker Lily had a rough day, I brought brisket. She closed her eyes, said it tasted like her granddad’s backyard. It meant nothing but care—until a photo of us eating appeared on the bulletin board, labeled cozy. Rumors spread.
At home, Nida dismissed me as a “food daddy.” Later, I found she was sharing my meals online like they weren’t mine. That night, I knew: she loved the dishes, not the cook. I left hungry for truth.
