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Arjuna had never been the kind of person to do anything half-heartedly.
He stood in the supermarket aisle longer than necessary, staring at the shelves as if every item demanded a careful decision. Several times his hand reached for something, weighed it in quiet consideration, then returned it to its place. Not because he was unsure, because he wanted everything to be perfect.
White Day had arrived.
He never said the words out loud, yet the thought had lived quietly in his mind since last month; since the day Sadewa handed him homemade chocolate with that calm smile, as though he had given it without expecting anything in return. Since Arjuna realized there were some things that could not simply be returned with words.
So he decided.
Today, he would be the one cooking.
Not a grand surprise. Not some dramatic moment. Just a day marked by a particular date, and a small intention that somehow grew larger inside his chest.
He came home earlier than usual.
The house was quiet when the door opened. The living room lights were on, though dim enough to blend with the familiar warmth of the place. Arjuna didn’t linger on the thought. His shoes were set neatly aside; his coat hung where it always did.
Light steps carried him toward the kitchen, groceries in hand. No voices. Nothing felt out of place.
He exhaled softly and rolled up his sleeves.
He had read the recipe more than once. Every measurement was taken with almost excessive precision. The stove was lit on low; the pan warmed slowly; oil poured in just enough. Everything was done carefully—as if a single small mistake might unravel the intention he had been carrying since morning.
Soon the smell filled the kitchen. Warm. Slightly sharp.
But cooking was never just about following instructions.
There was a pause that lasted too long. A spice added too soon. A pinch of salt that slipped in just a little more than it should. Arjuna noticed it when he tasted it — the flavor wasn’t balanced.
He stood there in silence, as if hoping time alone might somehow fix it.
He tried to adjust it; adding water, stirring again, waiting. Tasting once more.
Still wrong.
The wall clock ticked slowly. The sound seemed louder than usual, as though reminding him that time would not bend for him. His breath stayed caught a little longer than normal. His shoulders stiffened before he even realized it.
Eventually, he turned the stove off.
The food in front of him wasn’t completely ruined, still edible. But it wasn’t what he had imagined. It wasn’t what he had wanted for Sadewa.
Arjuna sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.
His hands covered his face. The heat behind his eyes came too quickly; too intensely for something that should have been so simple. He didn’t understand why something this small could feel so heavy.
It wasn’t just about the food; it was the desire to give something perfect… and the quiet realization that he had failed his own expectation.
He didn’t hear the footsteps.
Didn’t notice another presence in the house; someone who had been there for a while already, simply choosing to remain silent. Sadewa stood at the kitchen entrance, watching from a distance. Watching the way Arjuna bowed his head; the faint tremor in his shoulders; the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
Sadewa approached without a sound.
He knelt slowly so they were level, his hand hovering for a moment before gently touching Arjuna’s wrist. Just enough to let him know he wasn’t alone.
Arjuna looked up.
His eyes were wet, breath breaking the silence. The tears he had been holding back finally slipped free, trailing quietly down his cheeks. The composure he usually carried had crumbled into something honest and exhausted.
“The taste is wrong,” he said at last, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
Sadewa didn’t answer right away. He simply brushed Arjuna’s cheek with his thumb, wiping away the fresh trace of tears.
“We can fix it,” he said calmly.
Arjuna lowered his gaze again, his hands curling tightly in his lap. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
Sadewa leaned closer and kissed the warm corner of Arjuna’s eye. Not hurried. Not forceful. Just enough to remind him that he was there.
“I’m impressed,” he murmured softly.
“Even before knowing how it tastes.”
A small laugh escaped Arjuna through the remnants of his tears.
Sadewa stood, taking an apron from its hook and tying it around himself with a familiar ease.
“Rest,” he said.
“Let me finish it.”
Arjuna watched him for a moment—hesitating, then nodding quietly. He moved to sit at the dining table instead. Sadewa moved through the kitchen with calm confidence, as though it was exactly where he belonged. Adjusting the flavor. Preparing things again. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure Arjuna was alright.
Night moved slowly, unhurried.
Two plates were set on the table. The lights dimmed just enough. No elaborate decorations. Just the two of them and a meal that was finally ready. The feeling of failure hadn’t disappeared completely, but something kept it from growing heavier.
“Thank you,” he said.
Sadewa smiled. “You started it.”
After dinner, they sat side by side on the sofa, their shoulders touching as their breathing slowly fell into the same rhythm. Arjuna rested his head against Sadewa. Their fingers intertwined.
“I only wanted to return what you gave me last month,” Arjuna said quietly.
Sadewa kissed his hair. “And you did.”
Arjuna closed his eyes slowly. Smiling.
He didn’t need a perfect dish to feel that it was enough.
Sugar would always dissolve.
Melting into sweetness that returned in different forms.
Sometimes through chocolate.
Sometimes through a mistake that two people fixed together.
And sometimes through tears wiped away without a single question.