Gemotions

He found the article while aimlessly scrolling. "World-renowned Chef's Newest Triumph: The Midnight Cake!" It was the same cake. The exact same one his late wife had made every year for his birthday. His breath hitched in his chest. His fingers fumbled with the mouse as he clicked through the recipe.

The descriptions, the ingredient list, the baking instructions – every word was a brutal reminder. She’d called it the "Midnight Cake" because they always ate it late, huddled together in the kitchen after a long day. A tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, tracing a path through the stubble he'd forgotten to shave off.

He felt a heavy weight in his chest, a constant, crushing presence. It felt like someone had stolen more than just a recipe. They had stolen a piece of his heart. The chef, the article gushed, had "reinvented" the dessert. He felt a rage he didn't know he was capable of, and it was hard to ignore the bitterness that swelled within.

He closed the laptop, the screen reflecting his hollow-eyed face. He reached for the cookbook, her cookbook, and opened it to the cake recipe. The ink felt like a physical touch, a phantom limb.