The Party We Might Never Make It To

The kitchen is filled with the smell of garlic and butter, an aroma that usually comforts me. But tonight, it wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. I glance at the clock again, each tick echoing my escalating anxiety. Ethan is still in the shower, and I’m left alone with memories that feel more like ghosts haunting the corners of my mind.

My hands shake slightly as I try to focus on the recipe before me. The pressure to create the perfect meal before the party feels overwhelming, and I can hear Dr. Lev’s voice in my head reminding me about perfectionist tendencies. The cutting board becomes a battlefield of expectations, each slice of vegetable a reminder of my need for precision.

I lean against the counter, my phone buzzing every few minutes. It’s Claire, asking if I’m still coming to the party later. I want to text back, to explain that I’m stuck in a living room of “what-ifs” and “I-can’t-do-this” thoughts. But the words don’t come. Instead, I scroll through my feed, watching happy faces dance across the screen. They look so free.

The kitchen space feels increasingly chaotic. I’m trying to juggle multiple dishes at once, aware that everything needs to finish cooking at the same time. The timer dings aggressively, and I jump, nearly dropping the wooden spoon. My heart races as I try to remember if I added enough salt to the sauce, if the vegetables are cut uniformly enough, if anyone will notice the slight imperfections in my presentation.

Just then, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open breaks my reverie. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Ethan steps out, his hair damp and tousled, wearing nothing but a towel. The sight shouldn’t stir anything in me, and yet, my heart races against the tidal wave of indecision churning in my gut.

It’s infuriating how easily I can admire his form — the way his strong shoulders taper down to a waist that’s always reminded me of the intricate lines in a well-crafted sculpture. A small part of me wishes I could silence the voice in my head, the one that keeps reminding me how my feelings for him are a betrayal to consider. As he shifts to grab his clothes, I catch a glimpse of his playful smile, a carefree expression that draws me back to simpler times.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice is warm, inviting, but the question hangs heavily in the air. He picks up on my mood, and I can feel the weight of his gaze searching mine for answers I can’t give.

I try to make the cooking process more enjoyable by putting on some music, but even the familiar melodies feel distant. The rhythm helps somewhat, providing a steady beat to chop by, a distraction from the overthinking. We develop a natural flow, moving around each other in the kitchen with practiced ease, despite the emotional tension hanging between us.

I nod, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Yeah, just… thinking about the party.” The words tumble out, banal to disguise the real tempest revolving within.

“The one Claire is hosting? Are we still going?” He pauses, looking genuinely interested. Inside, I recoil at the thought of social interactions, the noise mingling with my insecurities. Camaraderie feels like a facade, and I’m terrified of being exposed in front of both friends and inner fears.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, trying to match his casual tone. He shrugs, seemingly unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm.

“I know that look,” Ethan says softly, noticing my tense shoulders. “Remember what we talked about — it doesn’t have to be perfect.” His words echo the mantras I’ve been trying to learn: “I am doing my best” and “I can handle imperfections.” The kitchen has become our sanctuary of honest conversations, where vulnerability feels safer between stirring pots and chopping vegetables.

As he finishes dressing, I’m momentarily distracted by the way his jeans cling to his figure, a reminder of the night we spent tangled in each other’s arms — an innocent evening that spiraled into something electric, something I keep pretending didn’t happen. That was before the silence filled the gaps between us, before the complicity of our shared secret weighed heavily on my heart.

He moves toward me, the kitchen brightening with his presence. “Want help with dinner?”

“Sure, if you can manage not to burn the garlic.” I manage a light-hearted jab, the familiar banter an anchor against my spiraling thoughts. For a fleeting moment, laughter fills the space, a comfort against the tension that brews just beneath the surface.

I focus on the feeling of the knife in my hand, the scent of herbs, the sound of simmering. But my anxiety keeps creeping back, making every decision feel monumental. Should I add more seasoning? Is the temperature too high? The questions swirl like steam from the pot.

But as quickly as it comes, doubt creeps back in. I cannot shake the feeling of impending doom — an undeniable truth that if we step out that door tonight, we will forge paths that could reshape everything.

Ethan catches my eye again, and I see something deeper — a flicker of uncertainty mirroring my own. It’s in that moment I realize, neither of us can ignore the weight of what we’ve shared. I want to speak, to unravel the web of confusion between us, but the kitchen fills with a silence that feels both deafening and comforting.

“Whatever happens tonight,” he begins, his voice low and earnest, “I’ll be here.”

I want to believe him, to let that promise wrap around me like a safety net, but life isn’t so simple. I wonder if bravery is really about saying what we want to say or if it’s just the courage to walk away.

With one last glance at the half-set table, I nod, trying to quell the storm within me. The garlic simmers on the stove, and for now, I choose to stay.

As we finish preparing dinner, the outside world fades away, the sounds of laughter and chatter from the impending party growing distant. I realize that for tonight, I can let the moment be enough — just for a little while longer.

And in the quiet cocoon of our kitchen, maybe that’s all we truly need.

Originally Published On Medium