“So, what now?” he asks softly. “About the competition, I mean.”

I sigh, my mind racing back to the hours John and I spent in the kitchen, the relentless pursuit of a

perfection that now seems so utterly… pointless.

“I think I just have to accept that I can’t practice this recipe the right way,” I finally murmur, taking a step

back as I try to ignore the racing of my heart. “I guess not everything can be perfect.”

I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, finally managing to unlock it and step inside for the first time

since this morning.

The weight of the day presses down on me like a ton of bricks. ‘Exhausted’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And the frustration over the truffles—or the lack thereof—is the cherry on top.

Enter title…

mumble to myself, tossing my bag

letting them thud unceremoniously onto the floor. For a moment, I

here, still in

grow heavy and I start to

welcoming arms of

I’m about to finally nod off into the sweet embrace of sleep, a sharp ding pierces the air. I

my eyes snapping

phone’s screen is lit up on the coffee table, a notification glowing. Rubbing my temples,

narrowing as I see it’s

and subject

heartbeat quickens as I open the email,

detail about the competition. But as I skim the content,

first email in the thread reads. “I’m thinking that we should do the truffle dish after all,

you think?”

judge named Emi replies. “The mafaldine will

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