My Love Is Off The Menu

The fourth time I saw Troy posting the herbal wellness broth I had spent four hours simmering for Amelia on his Instagram feed, I didn't say a word. I simply opened my messages with my personal jeweler. I ordered myself the expensive watch I’d been eyeing for months. Consider it a self-awarded medal for standing over a hot stove for four hours, watching the steam rise, thinking of someone who wasn't thinking of me. But when I finally finished scrubbing the kitchen counters and walked to the entryway to unbox it, the package was gone. My phone buzzed. Amelia’s name popped up on the screen. "Troy got laid off today and he’s an absolute wreck. I grabbed that gift box from the porch to cheer him up. You don't mind, do you?" I stared at the glowing screen. Somewhere deep inside me, the last remaining ember of warmth went cold. There was no point in holding on anymore. … Troy was quick to update his feed. In the photo, the sleek leather strap and polished gold bezel of the watch I had saved up for weeks to buy sat open on a velvet lining. Next to the luxury packaging was a woman’s slender, pale hand resting gently on his sleeve. I had held that hand for seven years. The caption was practically dripping with subtext: "It’s the best feeling knowing someone always has your back. Winter suddenly doesn't feel so cold." I stared at those words until my eyes burned, blinking back the sting of unshed tears. My phone buzzed again, breaking the silence. It was a text from my mother. "Lucas, sweetheart, did you and Amelia try that wild mountain ginseng I mailed you? It’s so hard to find nowadays. I had to ask half the town to track down high-grade roots. If you both like it, I’ll find a way to send more." My fingers trembled over the keyboard. I scrolled up, and Troy’s previous post caught my eye. It was a photo of a steaming bowl of golden, rich chicken broth. The wild ginseng roots were visible, soft and steeped in the broth. He was holding up a peace sign to the camera. "When you're loved, even the soup tastes sweet." A hard, dry lump lodged itself in my throat. The rare ginseng my mother had scraped together, refusing to use for her own failing health, had traveled thousands of miles only to end up in Troy’s bowl. And Amelia hadn't even bothered to offer a single word of explanation. I locked my phone, let the screen go dark, and then forced myself to open my mother’s messages again. Another text from her popped up. "Oh, by the way, your dad says the landlord for that old corner shop on Main Street is finally willing to lower the rent. Do you think you’d ever want to come back to Astoria and open your own place?" Just last month, I had asked Amelia, "When are we getting married?" She had been busy picking out a designer silk tie for Troy, not even bothering to look up from her laptop. "Didn't we agree to wait? Marriage isn't like putting together a quick dinner, Lucas. You can't just rush into these things." Back then, I had made excuses for her. I told myself she was just overwhelmed with her promotion, that her job was high-pressure. But looking at the screen now, the truth was glaringly obvious. It wasn't that she didn't want to get married. She just didn't want to marry me. I typed back: "Okay. I’ll come home." The moment the message sent, my mother’s name flashed on the screen with an incoming call. I answered, and her excited voice filled the quiet apartment. "Really? Oh, Lucas, that’s wonderful! Is Amelia coming back to Astoria to settle down with you too?" My throat tightened, making it hard to breathe. My parents had been dreaming of our wedding for years. They always talked about how grounded Amelia was, how she seemed like someone who would take care of me, someone I could build a life with. They had no idea that all her care, all her devotion, had long since been given to someone else. "We’ll talk about it when I get there," I managed to say, keeping my voice level. My mother didn't press. She just said, "Can you make it back by the end of the month? Your dad and I want to help you get the place remodeled before the holidays." I glanced at the calendar on the wall. There were exactly seven days left in the month. "I’ll be there," I said. The next morning, I walked into the office and handed in my resignation. The HR manager, a colleague I’d grown close to over the years, stared at the paper in disbelief. "Lucas, are you serious? You’re leaving? I thought you stayed in the city specifically to build a life here with Amelia." I kept my eyes trained on the polished wood of the desk, handing over the signed forms. "We’re over." Saying the words aloud for the first time, I expected to feel a crushing weight, a violent ache in my chest. But there was only a vast, hollow quiet. Seven years. We had gone from college sweethearts to planning a life together. I had truly believed we would make it from the campus grass to the altar. But I was learning that seven years was nothing compared to the lifetime of history Amelia shared with Troy. Just as I stepped out of the office building, the cool autumn wind hitting my face, Amelia’s call came through. "The broth you made yesterday was great," she said, her tone casual, as if we were discussing the weather. "Troy’s stomach has been acting up lately, and that was the only thing he could actually keep down." "Simmer another pot tonight. I’ll bring him over later to have some." I stood on the sidewalk, the wind stinging my eyes. I let the silence stretch between us for a few seconds before I spoke. "Amelia, do you have any idea how long it takes to make that broth?" She paused on the other end. "The wild ginseng inside," I continued, my voice steady, almost detached. "My mother sent that from Astoria. She heard you were working late nights and wanted me to make sure you were taking care of your health." In our first year together, if I so much as nicked my finger slicing vegetables, she would panic, wrapping her hands around mine and blowing gently on the skin. But then Troy came back into her life. And suddenly, the soup I poured my heart into was hers to give away. The gifts I bought for myself were hers to pacify him with. Every ounce of care I offered was treated like a cheap commodity she could hand to another man. As expected, Amelia’s voice hardened slightly after a brief silence. "Lucas, it’s just some ginseng." "Troy needed it, so it was worth it. Just make another batch, okay?" Hearing the exact answer I knew was coming, I hung up. I didn't walk to the local market to buy ingredients for soup. Instead, I went to the department store and bought a heavy, dark grey suitcase. Twenty-seven inches. Just large enough to pack away seven years of humiliation. Amelia and Troy arrived around six in the evening. The moment Troy stepped through the door, his eyes darted toward the kitchen. When he saw the spotless, cold stove, his expression fell, his eyes immediately welling with tears. "Amelia… I thought you said we were coming over for dinner and soup?" Amelia’s brow furrowed as she looked at me. "You didn't cook?" I was sitting on the sofa, looking up at her. "No." Her face darkened. Her eyes swept over the empty dining table. There was no herbal tea waiting, no light dinner keeping warm in the oven. For years, no matter how late she worked, I always kept something warm for her, terrified she would skip a meal and trigger her chronic gastritis. Tonight, there was nothing. She seemed to finally register the shift, her voice dropping an octave. "Then what are we supposed to do about dinner?" Troy reached out, gently tugging at the sleeve of her coat, his voice a soft, timid whisper. "Amelia, don't be upset. I’m sure Lucas is just still hurt about the broth from yesterday." With one sentence, he had effortlessly painted me as the petty, unreasonable boyfriend. Amelia let out a long, exhausted sigh. She reached into her bag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped designer box, holding it out to me like she was soothing a difficult child. "Alright, let’s not do this." "Troy bought this specifically to make it up to you. Just accept it so we can move on." I opened the box. Inside was a classic watch—the exact brand and model I had admired for over a year but could never bring myself to spend the money on. Seeing my silence, Amelia’s tone softened slightly. "I know you’ve wanted this one forever. Troy went out of his way to get it for you, so please stop holding a grudge." I picked up the watch. But as my thumb brushed against the polished back of the metal casing, I felt an engraving. I turned it over. In tiny, delicate cursive, it read: Troy. Amelia noticed my gaze and immediately spoke up. "Troy’s a lifestyle creator, you know that. The brand sent that to him as a promotional gift." "He only wore it once for a ten-second transition video. It’s practically brand new. Don't make a big deal out of it." A quiet, dry laugh escaped my throat. It was always the same story. Whatever Troy did was entirely innocent, completely accidental. But if I dared to feel even a flicker of resentment, I was the one "making a big deal out of nothing." I placed the watch back into its velvet slot. "I don't want it." Troy’s face crumbled, a tear spilling over his eyelashes. "Lucas… are you rejecting it just because I touched it? I promise you, I barely even wore it…" Amelia’s patience snapped. "Lucas, can you stop being so incredibly ungrateful?" Troy sniffled, stepping between us as if to shield her from me. "Don't argue with him because of me, Amelia. It’s fine. I’ll just find something else to buy him." As he spoke, he reached out and took Amelia’s phone directly from her hand. With a simple swipe, the screen unlocked. I froze. Amelia had never let me touch her phone. Once, when my battery died and I tried to use her phone to order food, her face had turned incredibly cold. "Do you really trust me so little? Are you trying to go through my private messages?" When I tried to explain, she had lectured me about boundaries and mutual respect. From that day on, I never touched her phone again. Yet Troy unlocked it without a single second of hesitation. He didn't even have to ask for her passcode. He began scrolling through a shopping app, looking up at her with a bright smile. "Amelia, what does Lucas actually like? Help me pick." Amelia stood there, thinking for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she shrugged. "I don't know, tech stuff? Video games? Don't all guys like that?" I lowered my eyes, a cold chill settling over my chest. I loved working with wood. I loved simple, hand-spun linen shirts. I loved handmade, rustic ceramics. We had been together for seven years, and she couldn't name a single one of my hobbies. Troy quickly tapped on a high-end gaming console that cost over a thousand dollars. "What about this? I’m sure Lucas would love it." Amelia didn't hesitate. She authorized the payment immediately. Then, Troy pouted, looking up at her through his lashes. "You can't just buy things for Lucas. What about me?" The irritation on Amelia’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a deep, gentle warmth. "Of course. Weren't you talking about that professional camera lens? Let's get it." Standing beside them, I saw the price tag on the screen. Ten thousand dollars. She paid for it without a single blink, as if it were nothing more than a cheap toy to keep him smiling. Once the transaction cleared, Amelia finally looked back at me, her expression carrying a patronizing pity. "Are we good now? Can you forgive Troy?" This scene had played out more times than I could count. Whenever Amelia bought me something, Troy would see it, throw a quiet tantrum about how he wanted one too, and Amelia would immediately turn around and buy him something three times more expensive. Eventually, I stopped asking her for gifts entirely. It wasn't because I was trying to be "understanding." I was simply tired of watching her prove, over and over again, that I was never the one she cherished. I forced a polite, empty smile. "Sure." Amelia let out a visible sigh of relief, offering a half-hearted complaint. "Keeping both of you happy is exhausting. My savings took a real hit today." Troy laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her toward the kitchen. "Alright, alright, you're the hero today. The prince will personally cook to reward you." "Let’s set up a quick livestream while we prep. My followers have been begging to see you." Amelia muttered a protest about how much work it was, but her eyes were bright with affection. I watched her follow him into the kitchen. She, who had always claimed she couldn't stand the smell of cooking oil, clumsily picked up the chef’s knife, working with a diligence I had never seen before. When Troy complained that her apron was tied unevenly, she stood still, letting him lean in close to adjust it. When Troy complained that the overhead light was too harsh for the camera, she reached up to adjust the angle for him. She didn't hate the kitchen. She just hated being in it with me. I pulled up Instagram and clicked on Troy’s livestream. On the screen, Troy was laughing, directing her actions. "Amelia, slice the potatoes thinner than that." Amelia chuckled, her voice soft and intimate. "Alright, master chef." The comment section was flying by. "Oh my god, they are so sweet together!" "What kind of perfect couple is this? Just get married already!" "Troy's girlfriend is so incredibly supportive!" Amelia didn't correct a single comment. She didn't even hesitate when Troy picked up a piece of seasoned beef and fed it directly to her. She leaned in, taking it from his fingers with a small smile. My grip tightened around my phone. Even though I thought my heart had gone entirely numb, that image still managed to slice through me like a razor. I closed the app, turned around, and walked back into my bedroom. Half an hour later, Amelia called out to tell me dinner was ready. When I walked out, the table was loaded with heavy, deep-fried spicy chicken, boiled beef in chili oil, and spicy crawfish. In the center was a pot of hot pot broth, bubbling with bright red chili oil. Every single dish was packed with spices I couldn't eat due to my stomach issues. Amelia was busy setting Troy’s spot—arranging his plate, his glass of water, and a stack of napkins. But in front of my usual chair, there wasn't even a pair of chopsticks. Amelia didn't notice. She simply glanced at me, frowning. "What are you standing there for? Sit down." I walked into the kitchen, retrieved my own bowl and chopsticks, and sat down. When I returned, she was already busy dipping vegetables into the boiling broth and placing them on Troy’s plate. Troy glanced at me, then reached out to take the tongs. "Amelia, it’s fine, I can do it myself." Amelia brushed his hand away. "I know how impatient you are. You’ll either undercook it or leave it in too long. Just let me do it." Soon, the food on Troy’s plate had piled into a small hill. He took a few bites, then seemed to suddenly remember I was sitting there. "Amelia, you should put some food on Lucas’s plate too." Amelia didn't look up from the pot. "I have my hands full just taking care of you. He’s got his own hands; he can feed himself." My hand holding the chopsticks paused in mid-air. I slowly lowered them, picking up a single green leaf from the side of the pot. The hot pot steamed, filling the room with heat, but inside, I felt like I was freezing. It was amazing how obvious her favoritism was when she no longer cared to hide it. Troy chewed, his brow furrowing as he tasted the dipping sauce. "Amelia, this sauce doesn't taste right. Did you mix it wrong?" Amelia looked up instantly. "Impossible." "Five spoonfuls of sesame paste, a dash of sesame oil, two spoonfuls of green onions, half a spoonful of minced garlic, and absolutely no vinegar. I know your recipe by heart." As she spoke, the doorbell rang. She ran to the door, took a fresh jar of premium sesame paste from a delivery courier, and immediately rushed back to the kitchen to whisk a fresh bowl for him. "Try this one. Is the flavor right now?" Troy took a taste and smiled, completely satisfied. Watching them interact, so perfectly in sync, I felt like a ghost haunting a room I no longer belonged in. Amelia finally turned her attention to me, as if performing an act of charity, and mixed a quick bowl of sauce, placing it in front of me with a hint of irritation. "Here. Don't go telling people I treat you differently." "Honestly, Lucas, you didn't even have sesame paste stocked in the pantry. I had to order it last-minute." I stared at the bowl of sauce, entirely speechless. She could remember the exact ratios of the ten ingredients Troy liked in his dipping sauce. But she had completely forgotten that I was severely allergic to sesame. I didn't touch my food for the rest of the meal. After dinner, Troy set up his camera for another livestream. "Hey guys, I have something really special to show you tonight." He walked into the kitchen and brought out a delicate white porcelain double-boiler. When he lifted the lid, a sweet, fragrant steam drifted into the room. Inside was a delicate stew of rock sugar and bird’s nest. The moment I saw the porcelain container, the blood in my veins turned to ice. That dried bird’s nest was a rare, premium grade that my late grandmother had bought for me before she passed. I had kept it sealed in the cupboard for years, unable to bring myself to use it because it was the last physical memory I had of her. I stared at Troy, my voice laced with a cold anger I had never shown before. "Who gave you permission to touch my things?" Troy flinched, his eyes instantly clouding with tears. "Lucas… I’m so sorry. I didn't know I wasn't allowed to use this…" The live chat immediately exploded. "Who is this guy? Troy went out of his way to make a beautiful dessert, and he’s throwing a fit over some bird’s nest?" "This is so toxic." "Don't cry, Troy! Some people just don't know how to appreciate kindness." Amelia shot me a warning look, her voice low and sharp. "Lucas! Stop making a scene. The stream is live." Troy looked from Amelia to the screen, his tears falling right on cue. "Lucas, how much does it cost? I’ll pay you back for it, I promise…" I stared at him, my knuckles turning white. "That was a rare heirloom blood bird’s nest from my grandmother. You can't just buy that in a store." Amelia interrupted me, her voice dripping with impatience. "It’s just some food, Lucas. Do you really have to be this petty?" The anger inside me suddenly vanished, leaving only a vast, empty silence. This wasn't the first time. On Troy’s birthday last year, he had taken a liking to an antique jade pendant my mother had given me, insisting on wearing it for his photos. When I refused, his eyes had gone red in front of all our friends. "Does Lucas think I’m too low-class to touch his things?" Amelia had immediately stepped in front of him, glaring at me. "It’s just a piece of jade, Lucas. Did you really have to humiliate him like that?" And then there was the time I had a fever of 102 degrees. Amelia had accompanied me to the hospital to get an IV. I had drifted off to sleep on the hard plastic waiting chairs, and when I woke up, she was gone. The IV had run dry, and my hand was swollen and bruised where the blood had backed up. I called her, my head spinning with fever, only to hear Troy’s soft whimpering in the background. She had said, "Troy fell and hurt his knee at home. I had to come check on him. You're already at the hospital, so you're fine on your own, right?" We had a massive fight that night. But in the end, she had simply walked away, leaving me with one final sentence: "Lucas, you’re becoming completely unreasonable." In front of Troy, I was always the calculating, selfish, dramatic villain. The fire that had burned in my chest for seven years finally turned to ash. I realized there was no point in arguing anymore. I turned around and walked out the door, Amelia’s sharp voice echoing behind me. "Lucas! Where do you think you're going? You still owe Troy an apology!" I didn't look back. That afternoon, she sent me a text. "Troy was really shaken up by your outburst. I’m taking him up to the mountains to get some fresh air." "When we get back tonight, make sure you have dinner ready and apologize to him properly." I stared at the messages, a cold smile touching my lips. At the exact same time, a notification from my mother popped up. "Lucas, the deposit for the shop on Main Street is set. When are you coming back to sign the papers?" I typed back: "Tonight." I went back to the apartment and began packing my things. My clothes, my documents, my laptop. It turned out that after seven years, the things that actually belonged to me were incredibly few. I had thought I had deep roots in this city, but when it came down to it, my entire life fit perfectly into two suitcases. At eight o'clock that evening, I boarded a flight back to Astoria. As the plane lifted off, the sprawling lights of the city slowly shrank into tiny, glittering dots outside my window. The streets, the buildings, the apartment I had once foolishly hoped would be a home—all of it faded beneath the thick blanket of clouds. I looked out into the dark sky and whispered to myself, Goodbye, Amelia. The moment the plane touched down and my phone regained signal, dozens of missed calls and messages flooded my screen. Every single one was from Amelia. Standing near the luggage carousel, I finally answered her latest call. Her voice was tight with panic and irritation. "Lucas! Where on earth are you? Why is the apartment empty? Where did all your things go?" I kept my voice completely calm. "Amelia, let’s break up. You can keep the apartment. I’m leaving it to you and Troy."