Spicy Burrito Bowl

On paper, it was nothing unusual: an al pastor burrito bowl, warm with roasted pork, peppers, rice, and spice. But in the moment, it became something far more than dinner. It became a mirror. A container for the feelings I hadn’t yet named and the questions I was almost afraid to ask.

I sat across from him, our conversation flowing in waves of laughter, quiet, and curiosity. He agreed to let me eat while we hung out, and I agreed to share myself in subtle ways between bites. Seeing him smile put me at ease, but behind that comfort was a storm. Was this real? Or was the heat from the spice just tricking me into thinking it was? Did I simply want an excuse to look at him longer than I should?

It’s funny how food has the power to carry emotions. Every bite of that bowl came with flavor, yes, but also with an ache of uncertainty. Was I falling? Or was I just releasing words into the air, hoping someone—him—would catch them?

The Taste of Hope

At one point, he reminded me of something obvious but necessary: I don’t really know him yet. Not in the way years and seasons reveal people. And he doesn’t know me either. But even in that lack of certainty, he still gives me something I didn’t realize I was craving—hope.

Hope is stubborn. It doesn’t wait for logic. It doesn’t need facts. It arrives the second we feel a spark, even if the spark is small. Watching him talk, hearing the cadence of his voice, sitting in the easy rhythm of silence between us—I couldn’t help but feel that hope. Maybe he saw me. Maybe, just maybe, he found me.

Silence and Sharing

There’s a special kind of silence when two people are still learning each other. Not the heavy silence of boredom or disinterest, but the thoughtful kind. The kind filled with unspoken energy, with curiosity unwrapped slowly.

He told me his hiding place, and I told him mine. These weren’t literal hideouts, but the corners of ourselves we rarely reveal. Hearing his truth made me want to believe mine could be safe too. For a moment, silence felt like understanding, and the spice of the al pastor bowl matched the heat of my chest.

That kick—the one I love to chase—wasn’t just from the peppers. It was from being vulnerable in a way I don’t always allow myself to be.

Distance and Shields

But then came the pullback. He plays hard to get, though not in the cliché movie sense. His words act like shields, carefully chosen to keep distance. Yet even those words hinted at a deeper desire: that maybe he wants this too, whatever “this” is.

And I know the feeling. I shield myself in similar ways. I overthink until silence feels like rejection, until curiosity feels like risk. I write thoughts I never say out loud. I bleed words onto the page at night, wondering if I’m pushing people away by needing them too much.

Still, I want him to find me. Even if it’s just through a glowing screen. Even if I convince myself I don’t deserve it.

The FaceTime Glow

Even through FaceTime, the emotions linger. His image on the monitor isn’t just pixels; it’s a reminder of distance, yes, but also of possibility. I watch and wonder: am I sharing too much, too soon? Am I protecting myself, or am I sabotaging something before it has a chance to grow?

That’s the paradox of modern love—we fall through screens. We share our hiding places through Wi-Fi signals. We wonder if silence means comfort or disinterest. And through it all, we still hope to be seen.

Spicy Lessons

That burrito bowl wasn’t just a meal. It was a lesson. A reminder that emotions are messy, spicy, and sometimes overwhelming. It showed me how easily hope can bloom, how silence can carry meaning, and how distance doesn’t always kill connection—it just changes the way we feel it.

The truth is, we’ve all been here. Sitting with someone new, tasting both excitement and fear. Wondering if we’re too much, or not enough. Craving reassurance but hesitating to ask for it. Hoping—deep down—that the person across from us sees us in a way no one else has.

Maybe the burrito bowl was spicy. Maybe my heart was. Maybe both. But either way, the flavor lingers, reminding me that love often begins in the smallest, most ordinary moments.

And if you’ve ever sat across from someone—eyes searching, words tangled, heart racing—and wondered if they saw you too, know this: you are not alone. Your longing is shared, your silence is understood, and your hope is real. Like spice, it burns, it lingers, and it connects us.

So the next time you feel the heat of uncertainty, remember: the spice in your bowl might just be the start of something beautiful.