I entered the room, took my phone, and texted Taeng: "Isurvived the first day without burning down the kitchen." I put my phone on the nightstand, lay down on the bed, and soon fell asleep. The exhaustion from the day made sleep come easily, and for the first time in a while, I didn't have nightmares about work or the strange tension in the air whenever Chak was around.
The next morning
The alarm woke me up at 6:50 AM. I groggily reached for it, turning it off with a lazy hand. My body felt like lead, but I forced myself to get out of bed. The day ahead was looming, but for some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling of nervous excitement. After all, I had managed to survive my first day of cooking without setting the kitchen on fire. That was a win in itself.
I dragged myself into the kitchen and, still half-asleep, noticed a piece of paper on the counter. It was the last thing I had expected to find. I picked it up and read the note:
"Choose what you want to cook, but make sure it's edible."
I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. It sounded like something Chak would write—straightforward, to the point, and with just a hint of challenge in it. I folded the note and set it back down before heading to the fridge.
There, the contents greeted me with their usual cold indifference. But something caught my eye: a carton of eggs and a piece of smoked salmon. I frowned slightly, unsure of what to make. But then it hit me. A simple breakfast—scrambled eggs with toast, maybe a little extra with the salmon.
I grabbed a pan, set it on the stove, and cracked four eggs into it. As I started to mix them, one of the shells almost slipped into the pan, but I caught it just in time. I smiled at my own clumsiness, continuing to stir the eggs until they became creamy and smooth. Once they were done, I took them off the heat and moved to toast the bread.
As I worked, I realized I was oddly at peace in the kitchen. Maybe it was because I was in control—at least here, I didn't have to worry about anything going wrong. The worst thing that could happen was burning my food, and so far, that hadn't happened. I carefully placed the toast on the plate, followed by the scrambled eggs, and then laid the smoked salmon on top like a garnish.
Stepping back, I inspected the meal. It didn't look half-bad. In fact, it was almost impressive for someone like me, who usually only knew how to microwave frozen dinners. I felt a small surge of pride and grabbed a glass to squeeze some fresh orange juice.
With everything ready, I brought the plates to the table and set them down. I heard Chak's footsteps before I even saw him—calm and purposeful, as usual. His presence had a way of making the air feel heavier, but I was determined to stay composed.
"Good morning," I said, trying to sound casual, though my heart raced a little as he walked in. He gave me a small nod, barely acknowledging the greeting. It wasn't much, but I had learned by now not to expect much more.
We sat down at the table in silence. I waited, unsure of what to expect. Would he like the meal? Would he comment on how badly I had messed it up?
Chak picked up his fork and took the first bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. When he finally swallowed, he looked at me and said, "Not bad."
Relief washed over me, and I couldn't help but smile. It wasn't praise, but it wasn't criticism either. "Thanks," I muttered, reaching for my own fork.
For a few moments, we both ate in silence, the only sound the soft clinking of our utensils. Then, just as I thought the moment might pass without anything significant, Chak spoke again.
"Have you decided what you want instead of money?"
The question caught me off guard. I hadn't expected him to ask anything like that, especially not so casually. I looked at him, unsure of how to respond, then decided to just speak the truth.
"I've been thinking about it," I said quietly. "I want something I've wanted for a long time… I want to be your friend."
Chak paused, his fork hovering above his plate for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, and I saw a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. Then, after a long silence, he finally spoke.
"My friend? That won't happen."
His response hit me harder than I expected. I frowned, not understanding. "Why not?"
He set his fork down, crossed his arms, and gave me a stern look. "Because you're my employee, and I'm your boss."
The words stung, more than I cared to admit. I had hoped for something different—something that would allow us to see each other as equals, even if just for a moment. But it seemed that hope was dashed.
"At work, we can act like we don't know each other. But at home… I want to get to know you, Chak."
The moment I said his name, his eyes widened slightly, as if something inside him had snapped into focus. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms even tighter, and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, with a deep sigh, he spoke again.
"You don't want to be my friend."
His words, so simple and final, left me speechless. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or be angry. I had tried, and yet here I was, facing an impenetrable wall.
I finally found my voice and asked, "Why not?"
Chak sighed again, this time with a deeper, more resigned tone. "Because…"