Whispers of Truth | Matt Sturniolo

𝒳𝐼𝒳

𝘼𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙖 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙚

The decision to spend the night at the triplets' house had been a spur-of-the-moment choice, I was already dressed in clothing that walked the line between daywear and night attire. Nick, ever the considerate friend, offered to sleep on the floor, giving me his bed.

A playful argument ensued between us as I refused to let him sacrifice his comfort. It was in the midst of this friendly dispute that Chris, usually the silent observer, chose to interject, his voice breaking my silence on a matter that, at first glance, seemed inconsequential. "Sleep in my room," he suggested, a casual offer. "I'll take the couch."

However, I was determined not to break my long-standing silence over something as trivial as this. Ignoring Chris's proposal, I turned my attention back to Nick. "Nick, it's fine, okay?" I said, my voice laced with determination. "You can sleep in your own bed, and I can manage on the floor. After all, what's the fun in a sleepover if we're in different rooms?"

I found myself working with the limited food supplies available in their kitchen, which amounted to nothing more than boxes of mac n' cheese. Determined to whip up a meal that could satiate all three of us, I took the simple ingredients and set to work.

In the process, I decided to add a little extra to the mix, just in case Matt had an appetite for more. My doubts about his hunger lingered, recalling how full I had felt when Chris had taken me to that same place. The act of preparing the meal carried with it a subtle undertone of care and consideration, an unspoken gesture of how interconnected our lives had become over the years.

Fully aware of Chris's affection for my baked rigatoni, I embarked on a culinary venture that mirrored the flavors he adored. I ventured down a similar path, taking inspiration from that beloved dish. However, I made a deliberate choice to forgo the traditional sauce, opting instead to transform the creation into a rich, creamy, homemade baked macaroni and cheese.

The kitchen soon filled with the tantalizing aroma of bubbling cheese and pasta, and the process of crafting this dish became a silent ode to our shared experiences, both the joyful and the challenging. I stirred the ingredients with care, adding a dash of seasoning and a touch of love, each action serving as a testament to the intricate bond that had evolved over the years.

As the delectable scent of the homemade baked macaroni and cheese wafted through the kitchen, Chris walked in, his steps slowing as he inhaled deeply. An audible groan escaped his lips as he savored the enticing aroma, his eyes lighting up with anticipation.

"God, I've missed your cooking" he admitted with a wistful smile, his unexpected presence had caught me off guard, and as I reached for a knife to cut a slice of bread, my fingers trembled slightly. The blade met my finger at an odd angle, and a sudden, sharp pain shot through me. A small, startled "FUCK!" escaped my lips, and I quickly pulled my hand back, watching as a thin line of crimson welled up on my fingertip.

I held my injured finger close, a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort washing over me, and Chris's expression shifted from anticipation to concern as he rushed to my side, his actions a testament to the complex and intricate bonds that defined our relationships.

Chris swiftly put his arm around me in a protective gesture, concern lurking on his face as he examined the minor injury. "Are you also getting a sense of déjà vu?" he asked with a smirk, his attempt at lightening the mood.

However, the pain and shock had left me slightly on edge, and I snapped at him, my voice sharper than intended. "Chris, please, just go get me a band-aid," I demanded, the urgency in my tone betraying my unease. My outburst was met with a slight nod from Chris, who quickly moved to fetch the necessary supplies, the familiarity of our interactions evoking both nostalgia and a hint of exasperation.