The noodles were cold.


    Yet I continued to eat them.


    But the more I ate the more pathetic I felt.


    I felt like crying as I continued to polish off the noodles.


    Yet no tears came through.


    I no longer ate for the hunger. Not that I was hungry to begin with.


    I no longer ate for the flavor. Homemade but I could no longer care.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I ate just to finish it. To be done with it.


    In the end I’m left with a bowl of leftover broth and the tiny bits floating in it.


    I have no desire to finish neither the broth nor the broken pieces that once were long strands of noodles or chunky meat.


    I stare into the bowl of leftovers as I stir my chopsticks in it.


    In the end, I dumped it down the drain and left the bowl in the sink.


    My stomach is full but I still feel empty.


    I opened the fridge. Craving for a little something extra but not truly knowing what.


    I saw a little container of strawberry greek yogurt. Not from my favorite brand but it’ll do.


    I opened it up and scarfed it down, gaining goosebumps along the way. I finished it feeling bloated and regretful.


    But at least now I feel something.


    I feel cold.