(Yvette POV)
The first sign that sothing had shifted was not a confrontation.
It was a line added to the rubric.
I noticed it because I always read rubrics carefully—twice, sotis three tis—my eyes trained by years of knowing that expectations were rarely neutral. They were often weapons dressed as guidelines.
Consistency under scrutiny will be weighted more heavily.
The sentence was new. At least, it hadn’t been there last week.
I stood in front of the board longer than necessary, my notebook pressed against my chest as students moved around , chatting and laughing. No one else seed bothered. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t noticed.
Or perhaps they didn’t need to.
"Yvette, are you ready?"
I turned at the sound of my instructor’s voice and nodded. "Yes."
The kitchen humd with energy—gas burners flaring to life, knives tapping against boards, the sharp, comforting scent of herbs filling the air. This was the place I felt most myself. Where the noise inside my head finally quieted.
I worked with practiced focus.
The dish was simple in concept but demanding in execution. Precision mattered. Timing mattered. Every movent had to be intentional.
I plated carefully, breathing steadily, and presented my work.
The instructor leaned in, studied it, then looked up at .
"Your flavors are balanced," she said. "But you hesitated."
I blinked. "I followed the ti."
"Yes," she replied pleasantly, "but under pressure, seconds matter. In professional kitchens, hesitation is noticed."
A few heads turned.
Not enough to feel exposed. Just enough to feel... marked.
"I understand," I said, keeping my voice even.
She nodded and moved on.
I returned to my station, hands steady but heart beating a little faster.
Hesitation, I thought.
I couldn’t rember hesitating.
It wasn’t until lunch that the whispers started.
Not loud. Not obvious.
They didn’t need to be.
I sat with Élise near the windows, sunlight spilling across the table as we unwrapped our als. She was mid-sentence, animatedly complaining about a failed soufflé attempt, when the laughter from the table behind us sharpened.
"So people have it easy," a girl said casually, not quite looking in my direction. "Connections smooth everything."
Another voice chid in, light and amused. "Must be nice."
Élise stiffened.
I kept my eyes on my food.
"They’re not talking about you," Élise muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.
I took a slow bite and swallowed. "It doesn’t matter."
"Yvette—" Élise said.
"It doesn’t," I repeated softly. "Let it go."
She frowned but didn’t push.
I recognized the tactic.
Implied advantage. Unspoken accusation. The kind of rumor that didn’t require proof because it fed on resentnt instead.
She doesn’t belong here on rit.
She’s different.
She’s protected.
I had heard it before—in boardrooms, in hushed corners, in the pauses before my na was spoken.
The irony almost made smile.
If they only knew how alone I felt right now.
Later, as I washed my hands in the restroom, one of the girls—blonde, impeccably styled—caught my reflection in the mirror.
"You’re very composed," she said lightly. "I admire that."
"Thank you," I replied.
"It must be hard," she continued, adjusting her lipstick, "having expectations placed on you before you even start."
I t her gaze in the mirror. "Everyone here has expectations."
She smiled thinly. "Not like yours."
She left without another word.
I dried my hands slowly, staring at my reflection.
Don’t react, I told myself.
That’s what they want.
The mistake happened when I was alone.
That was the worst part.
I had stayed behind after class to practice, the kitchen quieter now, echoing faintly with distant sounds from other rooms. I moved through the motions automatically, letting muscle mory guide .
Chop. Stir. Taste.
My hands knew what to do.
Except this ti, they shook.
Just slightly.
The knife slipped—not enough to cut , but enough to nick the edge of a carrot unevenly. I stared at it longer than necessary, chest tightening.
Get it together, I told myself.
I corrected the cut and continued, but sothing was off. My timing faltered. I reached for salt twice, hesitated, then pulled back.
The echo of the instructor’s words crept in.
Hesitation is noticed.
My breath caught.
I closed my eyes and pressed my palms flat against the counter.
Why did this feel heavier than it should?
I had survived worse.
A loveless marriage.
A fall from a balcony.
A life where every choice had been stripped away and rewritten by others.
So why did a raised standard in a Paris kitchen make my chest ache like this?
Because this ti, I cared.
Because this was mine.
I straightened, forced my shoulders back, and finished the dish.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was honest.
As I cleaned my station, the kitchen empty around , I allowed myself one quiet truth.
Excellence is heavy when no one is cheering.
I picked up my bag and turned off the lights, stepping out into the hallway with asured steps.
I wasn’t broken.
But the weight was real.
And I knew—I would have to carry it alone, at least for now.
I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I saw Brent.
He was waiting outside the institute, leaning against the low stone wall across the street, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Not pacing. Not checking his phone every second. Just... there.
The mont I stepped out, his gaze lifted.
And sothing in loosened.
"Long day?" he asked gently as I approached.
I nodded, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Longer than usual."
He didn’t ask why.
That alone felt like a kindness.
We walked side by side for a few minutes, the rhythm of our steps settling into sothing familiar. Paris humd around us—bikes zipping past, café doors opening and closing, the low murmur of conversations blending into a comforting blur.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. "I... forgot."
His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "I thought so."
He didn’t scold . Didn’t lecture.
He just turned slightly, steering us toward a quiet side street. "Co on."
Brent’s apartnt wasn’t far. I’d been there enough tis now that it no longer felt foreign, but it still wasn’t mine—and that sohow made it easier to breathe.
He shrugged out of his coat and imdiately went to the kitchen.
"Sit," he said over his shoulder. "You look like you’ve been holding yourself together with thread."
I huffed a small laugh and obeyed, sinking into one of the chairs. My hands trembled faintly now that I wasn’t pretending they didn’t.
He moved efficiently, the way he always did—filling a kettle, slicing bread, reheating soup he must have prepared earlier. The sll filled the space, warm and grounding.
"You don’t have to—" I started.
"I want to," he replied calmly.
That ended the argunt before it began.
When he placed the bowl in front of , I stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He sat across from , watching without staring as I took the first sip. The warmth spread through my chest, down my arms, into places I hadn’t realized were tense.
"You don’t have to be strong all the ti," he said after a mont.
I looked up at him.
"I know," I replied. "I just... forget sotis."
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
Later, when I curled up on the sofa with my notebook, I finally let myself think.
About the raised standards.
The whispers.
The way I’d faltered alone in the kitchen.
I flipped through my notes slowly, fingers tracing margins filled with reminders and corrections.
Why does this feel like it’s about more than food? I wondered.
Then the answer ca, quiet and unwelco.
Because this ti, no one handed the path.
No inheritance.
No safety net.
No role written for in advance.
I was here because I chose to be.
And that ant every stumble felt personal.
I closed the notebook and exhaled.
"I didn’t co here to be chosen," I murmured aloud. "I ca to learn."
Brent glanced up from the counter where he was rinsing dishes. "Say that again."
I smiled faintly. "Nothing."
But I repeated it inside myself.
I ca to learn.
Not to impress.
Not to prove.
Not to silence anyone.
Just—to grow.
The thought steadied .
That night, back in my apartnt, I stood by the window and looked out at the city.
Paris stretched endlessly below, glowing and alive. Sowhere out there were people watching —judging, asuring, waiting for to fail.
Sowhere else...
I thought of Joseph.
The thought ca unbidden, a soft ache rather than a sharp pain.
I wondered how his day had gone. Whether he was eating properly. Whether he was sleeping.
I shook my head lightly.
Focus, I told myself.
I wasn’t running away from him.
But I wasn’t chasing him either.
I was building sothing of my own—and for the first ti in both my lives, that felt like enough.
I turned away from the window, set my alarm, and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow would be another day.
And I would et it—not perfectly, but honestly.
Reviews
All reviews (0)