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They asked me,

“What would you like to eat today?

What should we serve on your plate?”

And I said,

“A plate of love…

and a tall glass of kindness, please.”

They stared at me

confused,

amused,

like I had spoken a language

they had forgotten existed.

“Sorry, sir…

we don’t serve that kind of dish here.”

So I asked,

“Then what do you serve?”

They handed me a menu

thick pages

full of flavours,

full of noise,

full of everything the world uses

to fill an empty stomach

but never an empty heart.

They said,

“Choose anything you want.”

I closed it softly.

“It’s alright,” I said,

“just a glass of water.”

And suddenly

my request felt heavier

than the whole menu.

Someone in the corner frowned

maybe the manager,

maybe the owner

like simplicity

was suspicious,

like thirst

was a crime.

One of them brought the water

and set it down

with a look that said,

“People like you

waste our time.”

I held the glass

clear, quiet, honest.

And I drank it slowly,

because even water

can feel like a blessing

in a room

where kindness is rare

and love is nowhere

to be found.

I thanked them

for the kindness

they didn’t realise

they had given.

But I couldn’t thank them

for the love

because love…

love was never on the menu.