He always liked cooking.
said it relaxed him. Helped him concentrate. When my cousin Lucas asked if he could apply at that new fusion restaurant downtown, I said yes—without thinking.
I forgot the owner.
I forgot the menu designer.
I forget who named the drink after our dog.
That was unknown to Lucas. He emailed me this snapshot of him smiling, proudly holding three gorgeous salmon roses in his second week.
I missed the fish.
Note pinned behind him on shelf caught my attention. Crumpled. Yellowed edges. My handwriting.
Years have passed since I saw it.
It said, “If you miss me, check the blue cooler.”
Lucas texted afterward:
This is still there. You’re not alone in the snapshot.”
Heart beating against ribs, I gazed at my phone. I magnified it. The message lay between a miso paste container and sake bottle behind Lucas’s elbow. My handwriting, no doubt. Curvy Rs. A strange “k” in “check.”
The metal fridge wall mirror surprised me. 2 persons. One is me. The other took a moment. It struck me.
It was her.
Mira.
My ex.
My almost-fiance.
I wondered how that snapshot existed.
I texted Lucas, “Open the blue cooler? Like now?
He said, “On break in 10. I’ll check.”
I paced my flat like a bomb defuser while waiting. Blue cooler was a terrible inside joke. Mira and I kept letters, presents, and awkward pictures in it as “surprises”. One donut with a bite missing and a sticky note: “Still better than your ex.”
We split up about four years ago. No battle. No cheating. Too many missed calls and late shifts led to a steady slip into quiet. She launched the eatery a year later. I hadn’t returned.
Lucas sent another snapshot 15 minutes later. Visible despite blurriness and odd lighting.
The cooler remained.
A ziplock bag was inside. Also in the bag? Polaroids stacked.
The reflection’s was on top.
Mira and I, arms around, faces close. Looked joyful. She looked depressed.
Lucas texted again: “More. Want me to bring them?
“Yes. Now.”
We sat in my little kitchen with the cooler open like a time capsule an hour later.
Lucas produced picture after picture. Mira sleeping on the sofa, me dancing with our dog—they were nice. Others were odd. Mira held an unfamiliar jewelry. Another, a whiteboard pic with “Don’t forget Friday.” I did it for you.” Pink scribble.
What’s this? Lucas inquired curiously but confusedly. Did she intentionally leave this here?
Not knowing what to say.
I hadn’t talked to Mira since our split. None of us followed each other online. Lacked mutual friends. She could as well have gone.
But this?
Like a ghost tour of our history.
A printed email was the final picture. Thousandfold crumpled. From me. We dated for two months before splitting.
Please, Mira, speak to me. It’s alright not to repair it. Still, say that. Do not vanish. I deserve more than silence.”
I couldn’t recall writing it. It was genuine. And she kept it.
Lucas was silent. Finally, he said, “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Yes, just.
But I wasn’t.
The following day, I ate out.
I told myself I was intrigued. I wanted to see the walk-in. It was more, I knew.
I entered during the afternoon lull after lunch and before supper prep.
Mira told me about her ideal restaurant, and it looked precisely as I imagined. Exposed brick. Soft jazz. Jungle vine-like ceiling plants. Ginger, soy, grilled peach smelled like memories.
A bartender smiled politely. Looking for someone?
I hesitated. “Uh… Mira. Is she in?
Bartender tilted head. “She rarely comes in during the day. Only for service.”
My heart fell. “Right. Thanks.”
I turned away but stopped. “Is there a blue cooler in the walk-in?”
She seemed confused. “Yeah. Strange stuff. No one touches it. She called it sentimental. Why?”
I responded, “Just… old memory,” and left.
I hardly slept that night.
I woke up from an unremembered dream the following morning to a knock on my door.
It was Mira.
As if time had stopped. Same dark curls. Same green jacket she stole from my closet. But her eyes differed. Tired. Warier.
“I heard you came by,” she whispered.
Stepped aside. “You want in?”
She nods.
Lucas and I glanced through images in the same kitchen. All were in a shoebox on the counter.
Mira looked at it but didn’t grab it.
“I didn’t think you’d ever go back there,” she added. The restaurant.”
“I didn’t know it was yours until Lucas started working there.”
She grinned slightly. “He’s good. Fast hands. You deserve pride.”
I regarded her. “Why did you keep everything?”
Her gaze landed on the table. It wasn’t my plan. I left and packaged everything when we broke up. But I couldn’t discard them. I took them to the restaurant, unsure. One day, I could look upon them and feel nothing.”
“And?” I requested.
“I still feel everything.”
We were silent for a while.
She tugged at a sleeve thread. I mishandled things. Ghosted you. Totally overwhelmed. Restaurants were falling apart. Investors quit. Mom was ill. You continued asking me to explain, but I had nothing decent to say. Thus, I said nothing.”
Swallowed hard. I was imperfect too. My stubbornness. I thought you’d return if I waited long enough.”
She glanced up. “I wanted. I felt unworthy.”
My heart burst.
The shoebox was opened by me. Gave her the top picture.
Me and her. Wrapped arms.
“I don’t know if this means anything anymore,” I continued, “but I still remember the day we took that. You burnt rice. The smoke alarm rang. Together, we laughed.”
With tears, she grinned. I recall. You wore that horrible sweatshirt.”
“The penguin one.”
“God, it was awful.”
You and I laughed.
Once in years, it wasn’t painful.
It felt like breathing.
That day, we had no reunion. Not one of those tales.
We had coffee a week later. Again next week.
We developed peace slowly and deliberately.
Lucas continued restaurant employment. Mira boosted him. He called her “Chef M.”
He sent me another snapshot at night.
The blue cooler. Empty.
“This chapter’s closed,” he wrote. “She said to throw it out.”
Saved the picture.
Just in case.
I returned to the eatery two months later. Dinnertime. I sat alone at the bar.
Mira emerged from behind. Her expression was shocked. Not sad.
“You came,” she said.
“Lucas said new halibut special is killer.”
She grinned. This is decent.
My drink was poured. We named it after our dog.
She said, “The name’s staying.”
Raising my glass. To prior lives.”
Hers clinked mine. “And whatever follows.”
We were never the same again. We discovered something else.
A mutual regard.
A comprehension.
Maybe that’s better than a second chance.
Not all broken things require fixing. Some things demand comprehension.
Not all love tales can be revived.
Just remembered.
Being nice.
Here’s the truth:
Apologies don’t always bring closure. Sometimes it’s a blue cooler full of lost memories—until the universe reminds you to look.
When will it happen?
Be brave and open it.
You may discover a lost self.
You could discover the ending you didn’t realize you needed.
If this tale affected you, tell someone who still wonders “what if.”
If you think certain things are worth remembering, like the post.
