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Chapter Four: A Recipe for Heartbreak
The following week began with promise. Amara's classes were lighter, her friendships brighter, and the memory of the "Friendship Feast" still lingered like a warm aftertaste.
But by Wednesday, everything cracked.
She had been scrolling through her phone between lectures when a photo appeared on her feed—Daniel. Back home, the boy she had almost loved. The caption stung worse than the picture: "She said yes 💍."
Her stomach dropped.
It wasn't that she expected him to wait for her—she had left for university with no promises—but the image reopened a wound she thought she had buried. All the quiet nights of studying, all the laughter with her new friends, all the progress… suddenly felt paper-thin.
By evening, she found herself in the kitchen, hands trembling as she pulled ingredients from the cupboard. She didn't have a plan, only a need to do something.
Rice. Tomatoes. Onions. Oil. Salt. Five things. Simple.
Her knife clattered against the cutting board as tears blurred her vision. The rhythm of chopping, the hiss of onions in hot oil—it all became a kind of shield against the ache in her chest.
When the stew simmered, rich and red, she sank to the floor and hugged her knees, the spoon still in her hand. The apartment smelled comforting, but her heart felt raw.
Finally, she whispered into the steam:
"Why does it hurt so much… even when I knew?"
She forced herself to eat a spoonful. It didn't erase the pain, but it steadied her breathing. One bite after another, the food grounded her—reminding her that she was still here, still moving, still capable of turning broken pieces into something whole.
Amara wrote in her notebook that night:
Heartbreak tastes like burnt onions and saltwater tears. But even then, five ingredients can save you from crumbling.
The next day, Amara tried to mask her puffy eyes with powder and a smile. But in class, Tola noticed. She always noticed.
"You didn't sleep," Tola whispered, leaning closer during a lecture.
"I'm fine," Amara muttered, eyes fixed on her notes.
But later, when Kunle suggested they study together, she hesitated. "Not today."
"Not today?" he repeated, eyebrows raised. "You? The queen of late-night pasta and projects?"
She forced a laugh, but her voice cracked. "I just… need a break."
That night, Tola showed up at her apartment anyway, holding a loaf of bread and a small jar of peanut butter.
"You cook for us all the time," Tola said simply. "So tonight, I'm here to keep you company—even if it's just bread and tea."
Amara's chest tightened. She didn't tell Tola about the photo, about Daniel, about the ring. But when they sat side by side, tearing pieces of bread and dipping them into mugs of tea, Amara felt the heaviness ease.
"It doesn't have to be fancy," Tola said with a grin. "Sometimes five ingredients is just… bread, sugar, water, tea leaves, and a friend."
Amara smiled—truly smiled—for the first time that day.
She scribbled in her notebook later that night:
Food can't erase pain. But it can remind you that you're not alone.
The heartbreak was still there, quiet and sharp. But it no longer felt like it would swallow her whole.
After Tola left, the apartment grew quiet again. The bread crumbs still dotted the table, and the mugs sat half-full, steam fading into the night.
Amara carried them to the sink, moving slowly, as if each small action could hold her together. She turned on the tap, letting the warm water run over her hands longer than needed.
She glanced at her reflection in the kitchen window—eyes still tired, but no longer hollow. The ache in her chest hadn't disappeared, but it no longer felt unbearable.
She opened her notebook and stared at the page where she had written earlier about heartbreak. Beneath it, she added a new line:
Even when the heart cracks, life continues to simmer. And maybe… maybe the stew tastes stronger because of it.
Closing the notebook, she placed it carefully on the shelf, like a promise to herself.
Then she stood by the window for a moment longer, watching the distant glow of campus lights. Her lips curved into the faintest smile.
Daniel was gone. That chapter had ended. But her story—her journey—was still unfolding, one recipe at a time.
She whispered softly into the empty room, "This won't break me."
And for the first time since the photo, she believed it.
Amara closed her notebook and set it gently on the shelf, as if sealing her pain between its pages. The room was quiet, but it no longer pressed down on her.
She took one last look at the half-washed dishes in the sink, the crumbs on the table, the faint scent of stew still hanging in the air. Life, in its small ways, kept moving forward.
"Five ingredients," she murmured, touching the cover of the notebook. "That's all it takes to keep going."
She switched off the light and slipped into bed, the ache still there, but softer—like an old bruise instead of a fresh wound.
And as sleep pulled her under, one thought lingered:
Heartbreak might change her, but it would not define her.
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 End of Chapter Four.