Differences

Chapter 34 - Luke

New Chapter!!!

Sorry for the long wait guys but hehehe new chapter💜💙🩵

Warning: concept of eating disorder is mentioned within this chapter. Please read what is comfortable for you.

Enjoy reading!!!📚🔖

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Cooking, was not my forte. And it wasn't exactly Alaina's either. But what had made me feel a great semblance of calm was that the cooking part was almost therapeutic for Alaina, despite not being inclined to it necessarily. The dicing of vegetables, stirring, whisking, boiling, layering. She thrived in continuous and controlled movements.

And after much scolding and a huge help from Leila, we managed to recreate Alaina's Nonna's Lasagne. When the dish was ready, steam blowing against our faces, the proud face from Leila, with the brightest smile lit from Alaina was priceless.

But upon plating the dish, the matter was a lot different.

I let her take her time. There was no point in pushing or rushing it. It'd only make her feel pressured. But after a while she grabbed her fork and took a bite. Chewing slowly.

"Does it taste good?" I hear myself ask. 

Me being nervous about this situation was a complete understatment as I watched her eat in front of me for the first time. After a audible silence, she looks up from her plate and meet my eyes. And her eyes crinkle as she gives me a smile.

"It tastes just like hers." She replies, and I feel my body lighten in relief.

"It must taste really good then." I comment as I grab a forkful for myself and holy shit, it tasted like something else. It tasted nothing like those microwaveable lasagne Leila always told me off for, chanting that it's poisonous. But she would've been right, they were poisonous shit compared to this lasagne which tasted amazing.

"Do you like it?" I hear her ask, her head cocked to the side, observing me.

"It tastes amazing. I'm gonna have to learn how to cook everything that's on that book your Nonna wrote."

"I don't know Mister Black. Don't let the size of that book deceive you. There are a lot of recipes in there."

"Mister Black?" I question

"You said your favourite colour was black. Even though black isn't a colour." She mutters the last part, "And your hair is also black. And you're wearing black. So, Mr Black." She says and then dig her fork to get another small portion of lasagne, hesitating before bringing it to her mouth.

"Must've left an impression on you, but you must've forgotten my new favourite color and shade is gray" I say hoping me talking to her, would help in distracting her.

"I don't think so." She replies as a giggle escapes her lips, "And also, you leave an impression on everyone."

"Did I leave an impression on you?"

"Of course, you did. The first time I met you, you were dressed in all black. Head to toe. The only color you had on you were your eyes. The contrasting icy blue and green and hazel. They're not black but they felt like a black hole, pulling me in. Wait, do you know what your eyes are called?"

"My eyes have names?"

"You can name them if you want, Mr Black. But I meant your condition. What your eye condition is called."

"No, what's it called?" I ask. I never bothered to care about my eyes. When I was younger it had been an insecurity, but as I aged, it turned out to be something irrelevant.