I am never going to be good enough for you is what I think as you carefully remove the tray of eggs and set them on the counter.

“How many eggs do you want?”

“Three.”

You crack one, then two, then three eggs. My heart seems to splinter into pieces with each break.

You grab the fork from the counter and dip it into bowl, whipping the eggs into a fluffy yellow liquid. With each stroke it feels like my heart is being pummeled by fists.

You take out the cheese and grate it slowly, watching as the cheese falls onto the bare plate. With each grate it feels like my heart is being shredded to bits.

You turn on the stove and wait for it to heat up. My heart feels like its catching on fire.

You pour the eggs. My heart feels like it has melted, like it was poured on the floor.

You wait, leaning against the counter, your t-shirt tight against your chest, drawing my eyes towards you.

You add the cheese. It feels like my heart is being sprinkled into the air like dust.

You wait. Each second feels like an hour. The air is tense between us.

When the omelet is done, you carefully slide it onto my plate, flipping it over at the last minute. It cracks.

For a moment you seem disappointed, but then you shrug and hand me my breakfast. “It’s cracked, but still perfect.” You say this with a smile.

I thank you and take my plate. It’s like you are handing me your heart. And at that moment I realize: I may be cracked, but I am still perfect.