Chapter 6
At lunchtime, I was eating in the cafeteria when I scrolled past a post from Clara Hart on her social media.
The photo was of a bowl of Tomato spaghetti.
The caption said: "Someone cooked for me late at night. So this is what it feels like to be someone's favorite."
I stared at the bowl of pasta for a few seconds.
The noodles were all clumped together, the eggs looked overcooked, and the tomato skins hadn't even been peeled off.
Someone commented, "You're so lucky."
I gave it a like.
Five minutes later, the post disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Michael messaged me.
Michael: [What did you mean by liking that post?]
I replied: [ wanted to cheer you on in the kitchen.]
Michael: [Don't be sarcastic.]
I replied: [Alright, I'll be real with you. Your food is awful.]
It took him a while to reply.
Michael: [You never said that before.]
I stared at the screen, and something in my chest twinged.
Back then, whenever he tried to cook, he'd make a pot of noodles that were barely done, and I'd always say it tasted great.
When he bought the wrong birthday cake for me, I'd brush it off and say it didn't matter.
When he forgot to celebrate my promotion, I'd say it was normal for him to be busy with work.
I kept all my disappointment to myself and acted like everything was fine.
In the end, he really thought I didn't care about anything.
I replied: [You never even asked if I liked it.]
This time, he didn't reply.
At eight that night, I was at home, making beef hot pot.
The doorbell rang.
I thought it was the delivery guy, so I opened the door, and there he was, standing outside.
He looked even thinner than the last time I saw him.
There was a shadow of stubble on his chin, and his shirt was so wrinkled it looked like he'd grabbed it out of a bag.
He was holding a cake.
Strawberry Flavor.
He said, "Didn't you say last time that you never got to celebrate your promotion?"
I leaned against the doorframe. "So?"
"I'm making it up to you."
I looked at the cake, and suddenly, I remembered what happened three months ago.
When I got my project bonus, I messaged him: [Come home early tonight. I want to have dinner with you.]
He replied: [Something came up.]
He didn't come home that night.
Later, I found out Clara Hart had texted him, [I'm really down today. I wish you were here.]
She was still away, not even back in town yet.
He spent the whole night talking with her.
I sat alone at the dining table, eating the steak I made, letting it go cold.
Now he was standing at my door with a cake, saying he was making it up to me.
I didn't take it.
"That celebration's already past its expiration date. Don't bother," I said.
His grip on the cake box tightened, and his face fell.
"I admit I neglected you before," he said.
"It wasn't neglect," I said.
I looked at him. "You knew I'd wait for you."
He swallowed hard.
I hated this scene.
Guilt that comes too late is like reheated soup from last night no matter how you warm it up, it still tastes off.
I was about to close the door.
He reached out to block it.
"Can I stay here tonight?" Michael asked.
I looked up at him.
Michael quickly explained, "I'm exhausted. Clara's kid keeps crying all night, so she can't sleep either. Whenever she's upset, she keeps saying I've changed. I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep in three days."
"Then go stay at a hotel," I said.
"This is my home."
I laughed.
"You come and go whenever you want. Do you think this place is a motel?" I said.