The chef and The charmer

one year ago

I’ve always had faith in love’s capacity for life. Growing up in a small town where hope did not often reach the horizon, I thought that love could solve everything. And for several years, I believe it has worked out.

My fiance was my compass and phonograph in a busy world. We had met in high school where the saying ‘opposites attract’ came to life: I was a timid girl whose fantasies were entirely consumed by becoming a chef, while he was a goal-oriented teenage boy infused with technology and looking far outside the locality.

Eric has been my anchor through life’s most turbulent storms. He held me when my grandma died, comforting me as I drowned in grief. He stayed by my side when my parents lost our home and I sank into depression, unable to afford college and settling instead for a small culinary school. Through it all, Eric was there, always saying reassuring words: “Don’t worry… everything will be fine. I’m here for you.”

As I snap out of my thoughts, my gaze drops to the cake on my lap. A small smile tugs at my lips as I read the words “Happy Birthday to My Fiance” written boldly across it. My eyes then shift to the modest ring on my finger, the one Eric proposed with before he moved a little further away for his dream job two years ago. We’ve been navigating a long-distance relationship ever since.

It hasn’t been easy. The distance has frayed us in ways I didn’t expect. Things have been tense recently—awkward silences, delayed responses, excuses that didn’t quite add up and him not allowing me to visit him anymore. But today, I’m determined to fix things. A surprise visit to his house, cake in hand, is my way of reminding him—and myself—of the love we’ve always shared.

The taxi pulls up to Eric’s house, and I climb out, paying the driver quickly. As I approach the front door, a frown crosses my face. The door is slightly ajar.

That’s odd. Eric’s always careful about locking up.

I step inside, calling out softly, “Eric?” My voice echoes in the quiet space.

Then I see it. A pair of women’s shoes sits carelessly by the entrance. My heart begins to race. Is Eric expecting someone today? The thought feels absurd, yet something about those shoes stirs an unease I can’t suppress.

I make my way to the bedroom, and that’s when I hear it—muffled sounds, a woman’s laughter, and Eric’s low voice. My stomach twists. My hand trembles as I push the door open.

Time seems to stop.

There, tangled in the sheets, are Eric and Emma—my best friend.

The cake slips from my hands, smashing to the floor in a mess of frosting and tears. For a moment, I’m frozen, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing.

Emma, my confidant, the one who had always been my shoulder to cry on. And Eric, the man I thought would never hurt me.

I lock eyes with Eric, searching desperately for an explanation, an apology, something. But all I see is panic. Emma scrambles to cover herself, stammering my name. Their voices blur into white noise as my chest tightens.

I turn and run

.

The cold air stings my face as I burst onto the street, tears streaming down my cheeks. I hear them calling after me, but their words are meaningless. My mind is drowning in questions.

Was I not enough? Was it because I came from a struggling family while Eric had it all? Did Emma, with her connections and polished life, offer him something I couldn’t?

Deep down, I’d always ignored the red flags. The way Eric dismissed my small victories, like getting into culinary school. The way he grew distant, his affection turning into obligation. He wasn’t the man I’d convinced myself he was, but I was too blinded by love to see it. Happiness had always been something I clung to, like a lifeline in an otherwise turbulent sea.

My heart ached in a way I hadn’t thought possible. It wasn’t just the sight of Eric and Emma—it was the weight of realization crashing down. I had spent years weaving an illusion, convincing myself that Eric loved me with the same intensity I loved him. But love doesn’t dismiss, doesn’t ignore, doesn’t betray.

Was it my fault? The thought clawed its way into my mind. I had always tried to be enough for him, but maybe I wasn’t. Eric came from privilege, his world polished and perfect. And me? I was a chef who barely scraped by, juggling dreams and survival. Did he see me as a burden, something beneath him?

My breaths came shallow and ragged as the memories began to resurface—the way he’d brush off my excitement about a new recipe, or how his voice would grow cold when I called during his busy days. I’d ignored it all, clinging to the comfort of his old promises: “I’m here for you. Don’t worry.” Words that felt hollow now, echoed in my mind like cruel taunts.

And Emma—my best friend. My rock. She had been there when Eric proposed, hugging me with tears in her eyes, whispering how lucky I was. Did she feel lucky now, lying in my place? How long had this been going on? Had they laughed at my ignorance, sharing secret smiles while I clung to a love that no longer existed?

My legs felt like lead as I stumbled out of the house, each step heavy with grief. Tears blurred my vision, but they couldn’t drown out the suffocating pain in my chest. Betrayal wasn’t just a knife to the back—it was a blade that twisted in your heart, cutting deeper with every realization of what you missed, what you ignored, what you let yourself believe.

On the street, I couldn’t even think straight. All I could feel was the raw, unrelenting agony of loss—not just of Eric, but of the life I thought we were building together. It wasn’t the distance that had frayed us. It was them. And I had been too blind, too trusting, to see

Now, the weight of my denial crashes down on me.

“Evelyn!” Emma’s voice cuts through the haze.

I stop in the middle of the street and turn to face her, my vision blurred with tears. Before I can respond, a blinding light floods my senses.

The screech of tires. The sound of shattering glass.

Then, darkness.

I open my eyes, though my vision is blurry and fragmented. Sirens wail in the distance, and I feel myself being lifted onto a stretcher. Pain radiates through my body, sharp and unrelenting. I catch a glimpse of a man standing nearby, blood trickling down his forehead. He’s staring at me, his features tense and shadowed against the flashing red and blue lights.

“Who is that?” I try to ask, but my voice doesn’t come.

The man steps forward as if drawn to me, but paramedics block his path. He looks like he wants to say something—his eyes lock onto mine, filled with something I can’t quite place. Guilt? Concern? A connection I don’t understand?

“Miss, stay with us,” a paramedic says firmly, pulling my focus away.

The man keeps watching as I’m loaded into the ambulance. I try to memorize his face, but everything feels hazy. The sharp angles of his jawline, the dark intensity of his eyes—it’s as if his presence is etched into my mind despite the chaos.

Before I can make sense of anything, the ambulance doors close, and my world fades to black once more.