I walked down the familiar streets, the granola bar from Ms. Lail a half-eaten lump in my pocket. My brain was still trying to process the absolute train wreck of the last few hours.
When was the last ti I had this much to think about? Usually, my brain was just background noise, a low hum of video ga lore and aningless observations. Now it was a full-blown civil war.
My life used to be a slice-of-life manga. The really boring kind, where the main character just stares out the window a lot and has fake-deep thoughts about the clouds. The plot was simple: nothing happens. Ever.
Now? Now I was the main character of five different, badly written stories at once.
There was the awkward rom-com subplot with Jake saluting on the roof. The gritty delinquent manga where I was blackmailing the school’s top pretty-boy. The slow-burn friendship-or-is-it-sothing-more drama with Nina. And now this... this dark, depressing story about Thea, the girl who looked like she was already a ghost.
My life had officially gone multi-genre, and the writing was all over the place.
I used to worry about my save files getting corrupted. Now I had to worry about... people. Real ones. With real, ssy, complicated problems that couldn’t be fixed by reloading a checkpoint.
It was exhausting.
I wasn’t even paying attention to where I was going. My feet just sort of... knew the way. I looked up and realized where I was. I was standing at the corner of the street that led to Thea’s house.
I stopped.
The street looked just as quiet and forgotten as it had a few hours ago. No cars. No people. Just peeling paint and overgrown yards.
A part of wanted to walk down there. Just to see. To make sure the house was still standing, to make sure she wasn’t just... gone.
’Don’t be an idiot,’ I told myself.
What was I going to do? Knock on the door? ’Hey, it’s the random guy from school. Just doing a welfare check. Everything still shitty in here? Cool, cool.’
That wasn’t helping. That was just making it about . About making myself feel better for being a useless bystander. I had no right to just show up at her door. I wasn’t her friend and I wasn’t her hero.
I was just so guy who helped her once.
I had already crossed a line by following her. I couldn’t cross another one.
I just stood there for a long ti, staring down that quiet street. I hoped she was alright. I hoped she had a good reference picture for her birds. I hoped things would get better for her.
Hope felt like a stupid, useless thing. But it was all I had.
I finally turned and started walking ho.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling out of my head.
It was Nina.
> Nina: u still alive? or did ms lail lock you in a closet
A small smile finally broke through the crap in my head.
> : alive. she let go for good behavior.
> Nina: liar. she probably felt bad for you because you looked so pathetic
> : that too.
We were quiet for a minute. I got to my apartnt building and started walking up the stairs.
> Nina: hey, kofi.
> : yeah?
> Nina: you’re not a dumbass.
> : pretty sure that’s my official title now.
> Nina: no, i an for what you did today. for thea. that was... a good thing.
I stopped on the landing, my key halfway to the lock. I didn’t know what to say to that.
> : i didn’t do anything.
> Nina: you did more than anyone else.
I just stared at her ssage. Maybe she was right. Maybe just not walking away was enough sotis.
I unlocked my door and stepped inside.
> : hey nina.
> Nina: yeah?
> : thanks. for being my pillar.
The three dots appeared instantly.
> Nina: any ti, dumbass.
I dropped my bag by the door.
My body was screaming at to just collapse on the couch and die for a few hours. But my stomach had other ideas. It let out a low growl, a reminder that I was still a living, breathing idiot who needed fuel.
I walked into the kitchen and saw the grocery bags still lined up against the wall where Nina had left them. My new frying pan was sitting on the counter, clean and shiny.
’Scrambled eggs,’ I thought. That was the original plan. But then I rembered the chicken, the vegetables, the low-sodium soy sauce the broccoli lady made buy.
I pulled out the cookbook. "How to Cook for Yourself." I flipped to the "Easy Chicken Stir-fry" recipe. The picture still looked good. Intimidating, but good.
"Alright," I said to the empty room. "Let’s do this."
I felt like I was starting a new quest in a video ga. ’Tutorial: Basic Sustenance.’
First step: rice. The cookbook had a whole section on it. I asured the water and the rice into a pot, just like it said. I turned on the stove. And then I stood there, watching it. The book had very specific instructions about not taking the lid off. It felt like I was diffusing a bomb.
While the rice did its thing, I moved on to the vegetables. I pulled out my new cutting board and my new, terrifyingly sharp knife. I washed the red bell pepper and the onion.
I started with the pepper. I tried to rember how they did it on those cooking shows, cutting it into neat little strips. My strips ca out... less neat. More like sad, uneven chunks.
’Good enough’
Then ca the onion. I started chopping, and my eyes imdiately started watering. Then they started burning.
’What the hell?’ I thought, backing away from the cutting board and blinking furiously. ’This is a chemical weapon. Why do people eat this?’
The tears were streaming down my face now. I looked ridiculous, standing in my kitchen, crying over a half-chopped onion.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ’Get it together. It’s just an onion.’
I rembered the old lady’s advice. ’Curl your fingers under.’ I did, and finished chopping the rest of the onion without losing a nail. Small victories.
Next was the chicken. Cutting raw chicken is just as gross as it looks. It’s slimy and weird. I managed to chop it into bite-sized pieces without touching it more than I absolutely had to.
The rice was done. I took the lid off, and a cloud of steam puffed out. It looked... like rice. Not burned, not mushy. I had successfully boiled water and not screwed it up. I felt a ridiculous surge of pride.
I put the new frying pan on the stove, added so oil, and tossed in the chicken. The sizzle was a satisfying sound. After it was cooked, I threw in the vegetables. The whole kitchen started to sll amazing. Not like instant noodle powder, but like actual, real food.
I added the soy sauce and stirred it all together. It looked a lot like the picture in the book.
I scooped so rice into a bowl and piled the stir-fry on top. I took it over to the couch and sat down. My whole body ached from the whole standing and cooking but it felt refreshing, an ache from doing sothing.
I took the first bite.
And it was... good. It was really good. The chicken was cooked, the vegetables were a little crunchy, the sauce was salty and savory. It was the best thing I’d eaten in a long, long ti.
And I made it. . The guy who thought a balanced al was two different flavors of potato chips.
I ate the whole bowl, not even thinking about anything else. Just the food. Just the simple, satisfying act of eating sothing I had made myself.
After I was done, I washed the dishes. The pan was actually non-stick, just like the label promised. Another small victory.
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