By Ethan Crawford
April 23, 2025
I knew I shouldn’t have done it. But I did it anyway.
It started as a joke, just a little dig at those trust issues I’d been wrestling with for months. I kept telling myself I was overthinking things. But every time she looked at her phone, every time she laughed at a text I couldn’t see, something gnawed at me. Trust? It felt like a thin thread hanging by a hair.
So, I thought maybe I could test it. Maybe I could force her to show me who she really was. It was stupid, I know. But in the moment, I convinced myself it was the right thing.
I bought her a knife set.
Not because she had any particular love for cooking (she didn’t), but because it was the perfect gift to spark something, anything. The knives were sleek, sharp—beautiful in their way. It wasn’t about practicality. It was a message, or at least that’s how I saw it. A way to test the waters, to see if I was truly safe.
Her reaction was… unexpected.
When I handed her the set, her eyes lit up with genuine surprise. Not what I had anticipated. I had imagined a forced smile, maybe an awkward thank you, or a moment of confusion. But she took the box with a careful, almost reverent touch.
“This is beautiful,” she said softly, running her fingers over the handles. There was something in her voice—something real. And it hit me like a punch in the gut. What was I doing?
She set the knives down on the counter, and for a moment, we just stood there. The tension between us thickened. I waited, half-expecting her to say something cutting, something meant to drive the point home. Instead, she smiled, her lips curling up in that playful way I loved.
“You know,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about making a big dinner tonight. A surprise for you.”
I blinked, trying to make sense of it. “What kind of dinner?”
“A feast,” she said, eyes dancing as she grabbed one of the blades, her hands deftly holding it like a seasoned chef. “Something to make us forget all the nonsense.”
The knife gleamed in the dim light of the kitchen as she moved, chopping ingredients with precision. I couldn’t believe it—she was using the knives to cook. Not to hurt me, not to prove some twisted point. She was doing exactly what I had hoped she would—using them to nurture, to create something out of nothing.
I stood there, the weight of the situation sinking in. All my doubts, all my insecurities… were they just shadows in the light of her genuine care?
By the time dinner was ready, I didn’t know what to feel anymore. I couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous I’d been. All that time spent wondering if she’d turn the knives on me, when all she really wanted to do was make me something special.
I sat at the table, the food spread out before me, and realized that trust isn’t about testing someone—it’s about giving them space to show who they really are. I had been looking for betrayal in the wrong places.
But the lesson was clear: there are indeed two kinds of people, and I had to stop wondering which one she was. She was the one who chose to cook, not cut.
