By Samira Caldwell
April 23, 2025

I knew what I was getting into when I bought the knife set. Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was stupid—but it seemed like the only way to test what had been gnawing at me for so long.

I was never one for big, dramatic gestures. But lately, with all the subtle tension building between us, I felt like I had to know. I had to see for myself if she truly trusted me, or if there was something else at play—something I couldn’t see.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. It was the feeling, you know? The way she smiled a little too brightly when her phone buzzed, the way she’d sometimes freeze up when I asked the simplest questions. There was a darkness I couldn’t place, a lingering question that hovered just under the surface.

So, I did it. I went to the store, picked out a set of sharp, gleaming knives—expensive, precise, the kind that look like they belong in a professional kitchen, not in the hands of someone who didn’t care.

When I handed her the gift, her face lit up with surprise. She wasn’t expecting it, and I could tell it was genuine. It wasn’t the reaction I thought I’d get—there was no awkward pause, no uncomfortable silence. Instead, she kissed me on the cheek and laughed.

“Oh, wow,” she said, her fingers brushing over the handles with an almost reverent touch. “You really went all out, huh?”

I forced a smile. “I thought you might like it.”

But in the back of my mind, I was watching her closely. I wanted to know: Was this a sweet moment, or was she just pretending? Was this a gift for the kitchen, or was it the weapon she was going to use on me when the moment was right?

Later that night, I sat down at the kitchen table, watching her as she prepared dinner. She was focused, calm, as she sliced and diced vegetables with one of the knives. The way she moved was fluid, almost beautiful. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of unease. The knives looked sharp in her hands—dangerously sharp—and I wondered, just for a second, if she had it in her to use one of them on me.

When she looked up and caught my eye, she gave me a playful grin, the kind that had always made my heart skip. “You want to test them out?” she asked, holding up the knife like it was a toy. “I promise I won’t cut you… unless you really deserve it.”

I froze. Was this some sort of test? Was she trying to see how far I’d go to trust her?

Instead of answering, I stood up and walked over to her, taking the knife from her hand. “No need,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I trust you.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced by my answer, but smiled. “Good. Because there are two kinds of bitches in this world, and I’m the one who cooks you a meal, not cuts your heart out.”

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning. I smiled back, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the knife wasn’t just a tool for cooking anymore. It was a symbol.

Was I the one who was going to get sliced open? Or was this just the beginning of something I couldn’t quite understand?

The knife was still sharp, gleaming under the kitchen lights, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure if it was a tool of love… or something else.