The Taste of Being Invisible

Every day, I cook for her.

Not just any meals. Her favorite meals. The ones she mentioned once in passing, months ago, while laughing about how no one ever remembered them. I remember. I never forget. Chicken adobo on Mondays. Pancit on Wednesdays. Sweet leche flan on Fridays.

I put care into it. I time everything so it’s ready when she’s hungry. I chop, stir, season—all with the quiet hope that one day she’ll notice. That one day, the way I feed her might mean something more than just food.

She doesn’t see me that way.

She dates other guys. Guys who don’t remember her favorite dishes. Guys who don’t spend hours preparing something just because it’s meaningful to her. I know because I watch. I hear her laugh at their mistakes, their clumsy attempts to impress her. I know that my meals don’t matter. That the time I spend chopping, simmering, stirring, plating—it’s invisible.

And yet, I keep doing it.

I tell myself it’s kindness. I tell myself it’s love. I tell myself it’s not about getting anything in return. But that’s a lie. Every bite she takes, every smile she gives—however small—feels like a test. A measurement of whether my devotion is enough to finally matter.

Some nights, I sit in my apartment after delivering her dinner and stare at the empty street. My hands still smell of garlic and soy sauce. I replay our conversations in my head. Every laugh, every glance, every time she says “thank you” without looking me in the eye.

I’m a ghost in my own story. Feeding her, serving her, giving everything I can… and she never even asks who made it.

I used to hope that one day she’d notice. That one day she’d realize that someone loved her in ways no one else did. That day hasn’t come. Maybe it never will.

I tell myself I’ll stop soon. That I’ll reclaim my time, my energy, my heart. But tomorrow, she’ll probably text me she’s hungry again. And I’ll cook. Because some part of me still believes that if I give enough, she’ll finally see me.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part. The part that hurts the most.

Because giving shouldn’t make you invisible.

But here I am. Invisible.