"Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?"
I laugh softly, the sound barely disturbing the quiet. "I'm not a chef. I'm just a cook. But yes. Since I was little, the kitchen was my safe space. I loved the idea that people would enjoy what I made. That I could make them happy with something as simple as food."
"People?" The question is gentle. Curious.
"My brother and my aunt mostly. They fought constantly about everything. She tried to give him structure and discipline. He fought her every single step, rejecting everything she offered.But at dinner, when we all sat down at that table together, we were a family again. Whole. Connected." I pause, remembering those moments with a clarity that hurts.
Silence settles for a moment before I work up the courage to ask what I've been wondering. "Did you always want to be a businessman?"
The pause is long enough that I think he might not answer.
"I didn't have a choice," he says finally, each word carefully selected. "My father forced it on me from an early age. Made it clear there was no other option. Sometimes he used words. Sometimes he used force when words weren't enough."
The implication hangs heavy in the air between us. Abuse. Violence. A childhood shaped by fear and pain and expectations impossible to meet.
I keep my hand moving through his hair, offering what comfort I can without words that would only make him feel exposed or vulnerable in ways he wouldn't welcome.
"Can I ask what happened?" I venture carefully. "With your vision, I mean."
Another long hesitation, longer than before. The kind of pause that suggests he's deciding how much truth to offer.
"I fell," he says finally. "Hit my head on something. That caused the damage to my retinas."
Something about the answer feels incomplete. Not quite a lie but not the whole truth either.
But I don't push. Don't demand more than he's willing to give.
"Do you feel like you're getting better?" I ask instead.
"Every day there's improvement. Small but measurable. I have a doctor's appointment in a few days. Then I'll know for certain if I'll fully recover or if this is as good as it gets."
The uncertainty in his voice breaks something in my chest.
"It's awful," I say quietly, my fingers still moving in gentle circles against his scalp. "That your family isn't supportive. That they force you to live this lie instead of just accepting what happened and helping you through it."
He's almost asleep now, I can tell by the way his breathing has deepened and slowed, by the complete relaxation of muscles that were rigid with pain minutes ago.
"You make it easier to bear," he murmurs, the words barely audible.
Then his breathing shifts completely. Deep and even and unconscious.
He's asleep.
He's asleep and I'm awake.
And his words sit between us. Unanswered. Unresolved.
You make it easier to bear.
But I don't know what that means. Don't know if it's gratitude or something deeper.
Don't know if I'm helping him or just making everything more complicated.
I stay there. Watching him sleep. Knowing I should leave but unable to make myself move.
Knowing that whatever is happening between us, it's not professional anymore.
It's not fake anymore.
