I did not label it because I believed in love.
Or at least basic fridge etiquette.
It sat behind the milk, slightly hidden,
like a shy celebrity avoiding attention.
Leftover pasta, glossy with sauce,
still holding the memory of effort.
I told myself, you are sorted for later.
Future me will be so grateful.
All day I thought about it
at inappropriate times.
In meetings. In traffic.
During conversations where I nodded
but was spiritually with the pasta.
I opened the fridge with purpose.
With vision. With emotional investment.
And then
nothing.
Not even a smudge.
Not even a suspicious fork.
Just an empty space so clean
it felt personal.
Someone saw my container,
opened it, sniffed it,
decided yes, this speaks to me,
and continued living their life
like a normal person.
Meanwhile I am standing here
processing betrayal and hunger
at the same time.
It is never just leftovers.
It is a contract.
A quiet agreement with yourself
that something will be easy later.
And now later is here
and it is not easy.
It is toast.
It is resentment.
It is me opening the fridge again
as if the pasta might apologise
and come back.
Amandeep Aujla
Te Kauwhata, NZ
