[STORY] Why do I always attract the emotionally unavailable ones?

I’ve always believed food could fix anything—until the day I found out that even jollof rice has limits.

It started last Sunday, a painfully slow afternoon. My kitchen smelled like onions and heartbreak, the kind that lingers even after you open all the windows. I had just been ghosted. Yeah, again.

So, I did what any emotionally unstable Gen Z foodie would do—I decided to cook my feelings away.

“Let’s make something healing,” I said out loud, scrolling through my recipe notes on my phone. Homemade jollof rice, fried plantain, spicy grilled chicken—my holy trinity of comfort food.

As I washed the rice, the sound of running water mixed with my thoughts. “Why do I always attract the emotionally unavailable ones?” I muttered. Even the rice didn’t answer. Typical.

Soon, my kitchen became my therapy room. Tomatoes sizzling in hot oil, the smell of garlic hitting the pan like a love note. I stirred with purpose, adding my secret spice mix. “Food never lies,” I whispered.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was him—the one who’d gone silent for days. His message:

“Hey, you home? I left something at your place last time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you did.”

Still, I replied:

“Yeah. You can come get it.”

Ten minutes later, he was at my door. Hair still messy, wearing that same hoodie I once called “boyfriend material.” The irony wasn’t lost on me.

“Wow, smells good,” he said, sniffing the air like a cat near a pot of stew.

“It’s jollof,” I replied, stirring without turning. “Therapy rice.”

He laughed softly. “Still cooking when you’re mad, huh?”

“Still pretending you care, huh?” I shot back.

Silence. Just the bubbling sound of tomatoes.

Then something weird happened. He walked to the counter, grabbed a spoon, and dipped it into the pot before I could stop him.

I gasped. “You didn’t even ask!”

He chewed slowly, eyes widening. “This… this is the best jollof rice you’ve ever made.”

My lips twitched. “You said that last time too.”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard. “But last time, I didn’t mean it.”

For a second, the world slowed down. The golden light from the kitchen window hit his face, and I saw the man I once loved—not the one who left my texts on read.

I sighed. “You came for your stuff. It’s in the box by the door.”

He nodded, still staring at the pot. “Can I… at least take some rice to go?”

I wanted to say no. I really did. But instead, I scooped some into a takeaway bowl, my heart stirring with the same spoon.

He smiled weakly. “You’ll always cook like you love people.”

“And you’ll always eat like you don’t deserve it,” I said quietly.

He froze, then gave a small nod. “Fair.”

When he left, I sat by the stove, letting the jollof simmer down slowly. The aroma filled the room, rich and warm—like forgiveness I wasn’t ready to give.

And as I took my first spoonful, I realized the truth:

Sometimes, recipes heal.

Sometimes, they just help you taste the pain one last time.

But either way, you end up full.