The rain started before dawn, tapping the window like an impatient visitor.
Emma sat at her desk, laptop open, blank page glaring back. Her room smelled faintly of vanilla from the candle she’d lit, the only thing making the Monday morning feel less hostile. The coffee cup beside her steamed quietly—at least it hadn’t attacked anyone yet.
She stared at the cursor. It blinked like it was judging her.
“This is stupid,” she whispered. “Nobody’s going to watch.”
She’d had the idea for weeks—to start a small anonymous livestream about food and emotion. Cooking had always been her safe place, and ever since she’d moved to Brookvale, it had also become the only thing that made the city feel like hers. But talking to a camera? That was new territory.
Still, she needed a distraction from thinking about Liam Carter and his perfect equations.
She adjusted the webcam and pressed record.
“Hi,” she began, voice soft, nervous. “This is, uh, Sugar. I don’t really know what this is yet. Maybe it’s about food. Maybe it’s about people.”
She lifted a spoonful of whipped cream toward the lens. “I think taste has memories. Sweet for hope, bitter for truth, salty for the things that make us cry. I don’t know if that’s science, but… maybe that’s okay.”
She paused, exhaled slowly. “So, tonight we’re making hot chocolate—the kind that reminds you of being safe.”
The live chat stayed empty at first. Then one message popped up.
*Sounds nice.*
Her heart leapt. Someone was watching.
“Thanks,” she said quickly. “I’m, um, new at this.”
The username read *ByteTheory.* She smiled at the coincidence—it sounded like something Liam would pick. Of course, it couldn’t be him. He probably spent evenings debugging the universe.
She stirred the milk and cocoa, steam fogging the lens. “Cooking is like therapy, you know? It listens. It forgives. It never asks why you added too much sugar.”
Another comment appeared: *It asks when you forget the salt.*
Emma laughed, startled. “True. Balance matters.”
The chat number climbed to five, then twelve. People started typing small messages—about their favorite comfort foods, about recipes their parents used to make. The scrolling text filled the screen like a heartbeat.
When she poured the hot chocolate into a mug and topped it with cream, she said, “There. Perfect. Sometimes all you need is warmth.”
*Warmth received,* someone typed.
She ended the stream with shaking hands and a grin she couldn’t hide.
When the notification appeared—*Stream saved successfully*—she let out a laugh. “Sugar survives day one,” she whispered.
The next morning at school, Sophie intercepted her before first period.
“You look suspiciously happy for a Monday. Spill.”
Emma hesitated. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“That depends on how weird it is.”
“I started a channel. Like—a cooking stream.”
Sophie blinked. “Wait. You actually did it? What’s it called?”
“‘Taste of You.’ It’s anonymous. I didn’t show my face.”
Sophie’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, Emma, that’s—”
“Crazy?”
“—amazing. You finally did something just for you.”
Emma bit her lip. “It’s small. Barely anyone watched.”
“Doesn’t matter. You cooked, you spoke, you existed. That’s huge.” Sophie slung an arm over her shoulder. “Besides, if you need marketing help, you know who to call.”
“Pretty sure the marketing budget is negative two dollars.”
Sophie grinned. “Lucky for you, my rate is friendship.”
At lunch, Emma pulled out her phone, half-dreading, half-hoping. The stream had seventy views and five comments. One of them was from *ByteTheory*: *Your definition of taste isn’t wrong. Just incomplete.*
She smiled, amused. “Sounds like something a scientist would say.”
Her reflection in the phone screen looked braver than she felt.
Outside the cafeteria window, the rain had stopped, leaving the world glazed and new.
By the time classes ended, the sky had cleared into a soft watercolor blue.
Emma stopped by the corner market on her way home, picking up sugar, cream, and a new notebook—her “recipe diary.” She still wasn’t sure whether the livestream was a one-time thing or the start of something bigger, but she liked the idea of having proof she’d tried.
Brookvale’s streets smelled of ocean and pastry. A food truck near the square played old pop songs through a tinny speaker; the sound made her smile.
Back home, the apartment felt quieter than usual. She unpacked the groceries and flipped on a small radio to keep the silence from swallowing her. A gentle voice filled the kitchen with weather updates and advertisements for local bakeries.
She tied her apron, clicked record, and said, “Day two, Sugar speaking. I thought maybe tonight we’d talk about beginnings. They don’t always taste good, but they matter.”
She laughed softly at her own nervousness. “My first beginning was yesterday. I didn’t burn anything or cry, so that’s progress.”
While melting butter in the pan, she continued, “Someone commented that my idea of taste was incomplete. I think that’s fair. Maybe taste is like people—nobody fits perfectly into one flavor.”
As the batter sizzled, she leaned closer to the mic. “So tell me—what does your today taste like?”
Messages began to appear.
*Like rain on toast.*
*Like coffee after too little sleep.*
*Like missing someone who doesn’t know.*
She read each one aloud, smiling softly. “See? That’s poetry. That’s flavor.”
When the pancakes were done, she stacked them neatly, dusting sugar over the top. “I guess tonight tastes like courage. Small, but sweet.”
Before ending the stream, she glanced at the chat again.
*ByteTheory: Courage is chemical, too. Sugar stimulates dopamine.*
Emma grinned. “And feelings stimulate everything else. Goodnight, scientist.”
Later, lying in bed, she replayed the chat in her head. There was something comforting about those nameless voices—people typing into the void, yet somehow all connected through flavor.
She picked up her new notebook and wrote on the first page:
*Chapter One: The Taste of Courage.*
Her handwriting curved slightly to the right, a little messy but full of energy.
For the first time since moving to Brookvale, she didn’t feel like a visitor. She felt like she’d arrived.
The next morning, Liam Carter opened his laptop in the quiet of his room.
He wasn’t looking for entertainment; he was searching data sets for his sensory project when the algorithm recommended a new channel: *Taste of You — Sweet for Hope.*
Curiosity won.
The screen showed a girl’s hands—no face—mixing batter in rhythmic circles. Her voice was calm, unhurried.
“Maybe taste is like people,” she said through the speakers. “Nobody fits perfectly into one flavor.”
He stopped scrolling. Something in her tone reminded him of a classroom conversation about variables and chaos.
When the stream ended, he sat back, frowning slightly.
He hadn’t planned to follow the channel. But his cursor hovered over the button longer than necessary.
Click.
Follow.
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