The yoga mat tasted like strawberries.

Lin stood in her minimalist apartment kitchen, thirty-seven floors above the glittering city, methodically cutting small squares from her purple yoga mat and placing them on a pristine white plate. The texture was surprisingly pleasant - springy yet tender, like perfectly done mochi.

“You need to stop this,” her sister Mei said during their weekly video call. The screen showed Mei’s concerned face, framed by her tastefully decorated suburban home. “First the houseplants, then the decorative pillows, and now your yoga mat? This isn’t normal, Jie.”

Lin carefully chewed another piece before responding. “The doctor says my bloodwork is perfect. Better than ever, actually.” She didn’t mention that she’d stopped seeing the doctor months ago.

“That’s not the point and you know it.” Mei’s voice softened. “Is this about David?”

Lin’s knife paused mid-cut. “No.” The lie felt sticky in her mouth. She swallowed it down with another piece of yoga mat.

After ending the call, Lin stood at her floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city lights blur through unshed tears. Two years ago, David had left a post-it note on this very window: “Gone to find myself. Don’t wait.” The yellow paper had long since fallen, but she could still see its ghost, a slightly less dusty rectangle on the glass.

The next morning, her local café was unusually crowded. Lin clutched her laptop, scanning for an empty seat.

“You can share my table,” a man offered, gesturing to the chair across from him. His smile was kind, if a bit worn at the edges. Like a well-loved sweater, Lin thought.

“Thanks,” she said, sitting down. “I’m Lin.”

“James,” he replied. “Would you like half of my croissant? It’s quite good here.”

Lin started to decline, then stopped. The croissant looked golden and flaky. Normal. Safe.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “I’d like that.”

That evening, Lin stood in her kitchen, staring at the remaining pieces of yoga mat on her plate. They no longer looked appetizing. For the first time, she noticed their artificial color, their synthetic smell.

She dumped the plate’s contents into the trash, then logged onto a food delivery app. Her finger hovered over the “Order Now” button for several seconds before pressing it.

The doorbell rang forty minutes later. Lin opened the door to find not just her dinner, but James, wearing a delivery uniform.

“Oh,” they said simultaneously.

“I…” James shifted the bag between his hands. “I do this part-time. Trying to save up to open my own bakery.”

Lin felt something crack inside her - not painfully, but like ice breaking in spring.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked. “I ordered too much food for one person.”

James smiled that worn, genuine smile. “I just finished my shift, actually.”

They ate real food at her real table, their laughter echoing off the minimalist walls, making the space feel less empty. Lin didn’t mention the yoga mat, and if James noticed the missing chunks from the one rolled up in the corner, he didn’t say anything.

Sometimes, Lin realized, hunger isn’t about food at all.