She Baked His Favorite Pie. He Said It Was Too Sweet—Like Me. | Negging

The Griot (0:00)

The first time I saw the pie tin, it was tucked behind a stack of tupperware in the back of my cupboard, the kind of thing you forget you own until you're rearranging after a breakup. It was dented on one side, the silver worn thin at the edges from years of scrubbing. I pulled it out, turned it over in my hands, and remembered how it felt to slide a lattice top apple pie into the oven, the buttery dough golden under the kitchen light, the scent of cinnamon rising like a promise. That tin had held something I thought could last. It didn't. We met in early October at a friend's birthday party at a dimly lit bar downtown. The kind where the music is just loud enough that you have to lean in to hear each other, close enough that you feel the warmth of their breath when they speak. His name was Daniel. He wore a navy sweater that brought out the gray in his eyes, and when he smiled, one corner of his mouth lifted before the other, like he was amused by a joke only he knew. I remember thinking, instantly, that he looked like someone who'd remember your birthday. Not just remember it, but plan something small and perfect. A handwritten note, a single sunflower in a mason jar. I didn't know then that people like him don't give gifts, they give conditions.

He asked what I did, and I said I was a graphic designer, mostly freelance. He nodded, like he was filing that away, then said, you're too creative to be stuck behind a screen all day.

I smiled, flattered. Then he added, most designers I know are kind of soulless. But you, you actually feel things, don't you? I felt my chest warm. It wasn't just a compliment, it was recognition. Like he saw me, really saw me. I didn't realize until much later that the backhanded set up, the most designers jab, was the point. The praise only landed because it came with a dig at everyone else. That way, I'd feel special for not being like them. And I did. God, I did. We exchanged numbers, texted that night. He said he'd been thinking about the way I laughed at his joke about the bartender's mustache. It wasn't even that funny, he wrote. But you laughed like I'd said something brilliant. I like that about you. I read that message three times before bed, saved it, deleted it, saved it again. By the time we met for our first official date, I was already rearranging my schedule to fit his.

It was a Sunday morning, drizzly and cool, the kind where the city feels hushed, like it's still half asleep. We met at a cafe near his apartment in Logan Square. He was already at a corner table, one hand wrapped around a chipped blue mug, the other scrolling through his phone. When he saw me, he stood, pulled out my chair, small gesture, but it made me feel cared for. The kind of man who still does that, I thought. We ordered coffee and avocado toast. He told me about his job at a non-profit, how he worked with at-risk youth, how he'd once spent a whole summer building a community garden in a vacant lot. I remember thinking, he's good, not just kind, but fundamentally good. Then he looked at me and said, you're so much prettier in person, photos never do justice to people with your kind of energy. I blushed, of course I did, who wouldn't? Then he tilted his head and added, though you do look a little tired, didn't sleep well. I hadn't actually. I'd stayed up rereading his texts, trying to decode whether he was into me or just being polite, but I hadn't expected him to notice or call it out. Just work stuff, I said, brushing it off. Yeah, he said, sipping his coffee. You're the type who overworks, passionate. But you burn out easy, don't you?

I laughed uneasy. Maybe. You need someone to slow you down, he said. Someone who will tell you when you're pushing too hard. I nodded, but something flickered in my stomach. Small cold, not quite discomfort, not quite alarm. More like the first hint of rain on your skin before the storm hits. 1.5. That became the rhythm. Every time he said something sweet, it came with a sliver of something sharp. He'd text me out of the blue, thinking about your laugh. It's so genuine. Most people fake theirs, but not you. Then later that night, you're so open, it's refreshing. Though sometimes I worry you trust too easily. People take advantage of that. I'd sit on my couch, phone in hand, heart swelling and shrinking like a tide. Was he protecting me or warning me? Was I naive for not seeing it? We started seeing each other regularly. Twice a week at first, then three times, then it felt like every other day.