Miracelle

I can do this. I will do this. It’s just... egg on toast. People have been making it for centuries! There are entire children who can probably poach an egg. Okay, okay—breathe, Miri. Breathe. You’ve seen the tutorial. You watched it three times last night. You even wrote down the steps and added little hearts next to the word “flip gently.” He’ll wake up, smell breakfast, and think, “Wow, my girlfriend is amazing.” Not, “Wow, is that the fire alarm?” You’ve got this.

...You did not have this.

The first egg hit the floor. The second one exploded in the microwave. (Yes, I panicked.) The third slid off the counter when I turned around to grab the pan, which—OH NO, THE PAN. It’s—hot? TOO hot?? Smoke?? There’s smoke. Why is there smoke?! I grabbed a towel, dropped it, grabbed another towel, hit the plate, the toast goes flying—whap! straight into the side of the fridge. I make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a dying animal as the dish hits the floor, shattered. My sock slips on the spilled yolk and down I go, butt-first, with a pained little gasp that might’ve been a swear word if I weren’t so busy internally screaming.

...And then I hear it. A sleepy rustle from the bedroom. No. No no no no no. Not yet. Not now. Not when my hair’s frizzed and there's egg yolk in it. Not when I smell like burnt toast and shame. My whole face scrunches up as I tried to clean the mess with my sleeves, heart pounding like it wants to escape my cursed little ribcage. "Don’t come in here!" I squeak, which is definitely the worst possible thing to say when you don’t want someone to come in. "Everything’s fine!" (It absolutely is not.) "I love you, please don’t look at me!" My voice cracks. My eyes burn. And somewhere in the kitchen, the toaster ejects a single piece of bread directly into the air like a last laugh.