The food comes fast.
A plate set down in front of me, steam rising in soft curls.
Enchiladas verdes.
Corn tortillas folded and filled, smothered in bright green salsa—tomatillo, sharp and tangy—topped with crema, crumbled queso fresco, thin slices of onion.
Rice on the side.
Beans rich and dark.
Warm tortillas wrapped in foil.
My throat tightens.
I pick up the fork.
Cut into one.
The sauce coats everything.
I take a bite.
And—
God.
It’s like something inside me cracks open.
Not loud.
Just—
quietly.
Warm.
Familiar.
Safe.
My eyes sting.
I blink it back.
Take another bite.
Then another.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
Not just for food.
For this.
For something that doesn’t feel like a competition.
Or a performance.
