The applause on the screen was deafening.
Even with the television volume turned low—out of courtesy to the nurses—the boy could feel it. The roar of a live audience, the clatter of cameras, the uncontainable excitement that came whenever he appeared.
The world's greatest chef Keano ST Hunter
He stood beneath blinding studio lights, dressed in a pristine white coat, posture relaxed yet commanding. Time had sharpened him. The rough edges the boy remembered from years ago were gone, replaced by confidence earned through fire and failure. Every movement—every glance, every breath—felt deliberate.
The boy watched without blinking.
He had been watching him for as long as he could remember.
When he was six, the chef had been a reckless prodigy—loud, arrogant, brilliant. Judges used words like raw talent and unrefined genius. The boy had memorized those episodes, replaying them late at night when the ward was quiet.
At nine, the chef lost a major competition on live television. The boy remembered that episode vividly. The chef didn't make excuses. He bowed deeply to the judges and said only one thing:
> "I wasn't good enough."
That moment stayed with the boy longer than any victory.
At twelve, the chef returned—calmer, sharper, terrifyingly precise. His dishes no longer screamed. They spoke.
At fifteen, he became untouchable.
And now—
Now he was a legend.
The boy shifted slightly on the bed, joints stiff, muscles weak. The IV line tugged gently at his arm as he adjusted. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it. He always did.
On screen, the host beamed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, voice bright with excitement, "before we continue tonight's celebration, we have a very special announcement."
The chef raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.
The boy leaned forward as much as his body allowed.
Special announcement.
The host turned toward the chef, smiling widely. "Chef, the world knows you as a master of the kitchen—but today, we get to celebrate something personal."
The camera zoomed in.
The chef laughed nervously. "You're making me nervous."
The audience chuckled.
The host gestured offstage. "Why don't you tell them yourself?"
There was a brief pause.
The chef took the microphone.
The boy's fingers tightened against the blanket.
"I've always believed food connects people," the chef said. "And today, I want to share something that means more to me than any award."
The lights softened.
The chef inhaled.
"My wife is pregnant."
For half a second, the studio went silent.
Then—
Cheers exploded.
The audience rose to their feet. Applause thundered. Confetti cannons fired somewhere offscreen. The camera cut to a woman stepping onto the stage—elegant, glowing, one hand resting gently against her stomach.
The chef moved to her side, placing a hand over hers.
The boy stared.
Married.
Pregnant.
A family.
He felt something warm bloom in his chest.
He smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't dramatic. Just a small, genuine curve of his lips—one that hadn't appeared often in his life.
"That's… good," he murmured.
He meant it.
He truly did.
The chef deserved happiness. Someone like him—someone who lived so fiercely, who poured his soul into every dish—should have a life beyond the kitchen.
The boy's smile lingered.
Then his chest seized.
A sharp, sudden pressure crushed inward, stealing his breath. His vision blurred as a violent cough tore its way out of him.
"—hk!"
Pain ripped through his throat.
He brought a trembling hand to his mouth, coughing again—harder this time. Something warm splattered against his palm.
Red.
The smile vanished.
He stared at the blood coating his fingers, detached, almost curious.
"So… it's starting," he whispered.
The coughing wouldn't stop. His chest burned, lungs screaming as if they were finally giving up the act they'd been performing for seventeen years. His body shook with each breath, alarms beginning to chirp faintly from the machines beside him.
On the screen, the celebration continued.
The chef laughed as reporters shouted questions. His wife smiled shyly, shielding her belly. Life moved forward—loud, brilliant, unstoppable.
The boy turned his head away.
Another cough wracked him, more blood staining the sheets.
He didn't call for help.
He knew what would happen if he did. Nurses would rush in, voices urgent, hands practiced. They would wipe the blood away, adjust the drip, whisper reassurances they no longer believed.
They would delay the inevitable.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to calm.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
Not in fear.
Not in regret.
Just… quietly.
His gaze drifted to the window. It was evening now, the sky painted in soft oranges and purples. Somewhere out there, families were gathering around dinner tables. Plates clinked. Laughter filled rooms. Steam rose from freshly cooked meals.
He had watched those scenes all his life.
Never once been part of them.
Another cough escaped him—lighter this time, but it hurt more.
His throat burned as he swallowed blood he couldn't spit out fast enough.
"Hey…" he whispered hoarsely, unsure who he was speaking to. The room? The world? Himself?
"If anyone's listening…"
His fingers clenched weakly into the blanket.
"I don't need much."
His voice shook, each word scraping his throat raw.
"I know I'm greedy… asking now."
He let out a faint, breathless laugh.
"But if I could have just one thing…"
He pictured it.
A plate set in front of him. Steam curling upward. A fork in his hand. The first bite.
The taste.
"I want to eat," he whispered. "Just once."
Another pause. His chest tightened again, but he pushed through it.
"And if I'm allowed to ask for more…"
The image of the chef flashed through his mind—standing tall beneath the lights, smiling as he shared his craft with the world.
"I want to meet him."
His breathing grew shallow.
"I want to stand in a kitchen. To hold a knife. To cook something that matters."
His vision darkened at the edges.
"I don't want to just watch anymore."
The machines beside him beeped faster now, their rhythm uneven.
His strength faded rapidly, limbs growing heavy, distant.
"I want… a life with food," he whispered.
Silence followed.
The beeping slowed.
On the television, the broadcast faded to commercial.
The boy's eyes drifted shut.
His final thought wasn't of pain.
It wasn't of abandonment.
It was of a simple, impossible dream—
A warm meal placed gently before him.
And somewhere beyond the hospital walls, beyond the screen, beyond the reach of this life—
Something heard him.