The noodles were cold.

  Yet I continued to eat them.

  But the more I ate the more pathetic I felt.

  I felt like crying as I continued to polish off the noodles.

  Yet no tears came through.

  I no longer ate for the hunger. Not that I was hungry to begin with.

  I no longer ate for the flavor. Homemade but I could no longer care.

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  I ate just to finish it. To be done with it.

  In the end I’m left with a bowl of leftover broth and the tiny bits floating in it.

  I have no desire to finish neither the broth nor the broken pieces that once were long strands of noodles or chunky meat.

  I stare into the bowl of leftovers as I stir my chopsticks in it.

  In the end, I dumped it down the drain and left the bowl in the sink.

  My stomach is full but I still feel empty.

  I opened the fridge. Craving for a little something extra but not truly knowing what.

  I saw a little container of strawberry greek yogurt. Not from my favorite brand but it’ll do.

  I opened it up and scarfed it down, gaining goosebumps along the way. I finished it feeling bloated and regretful.

  But at least now I feel something.

  I feel cold.