Once upon a time, a boy made me breakfast. He made bacon. Real crispy style bacon. Scrambled eggs that ran and melted as you ate them. And he made muffins. English breakfast muffins. He cooked them in the fat from the bacon till they were crispy. I fell in love with that boy and he fell in love with me and for years whenever I missed him I would go out and buy eggs, bacon, and muffins and cook them. The memory of that morning, of falling in love with him, helping to keep me going when he couldn't be there to hold me.
Years later, I met someone, and for breakfast one day he made eggs, bacon, and muffins with no knowledge of its meaning to me. Placing the muffins on my plate he suddenly whisked them off again crying "no! wait!" and took them to the pan full of bacon grease, dropping them in, coating them on both sides and letting them sizzle, before placing them on my plate once more. I tried not to cry. I hid it with a huge grin. Muffins have become an in joke with him and I still haven't explained to him completely why.
The boy I fell in love with... he's not mine anymore. But when I'm sad, and alone, and I don't have someone to put their arms around me and hold me, I go to the store and I buy eggs, bacon, and muffins. And I remind myself of a different morning when a boy cooked me breakfast. Of becoming a friend instead of falling in love. I try to remember that someone cares for me, even if it's no longer the boy I love.