The heat of the kitchen had become familiar to Kazuya—something he could almost anticipate now. But as the days wore on, it wasn't just the literal temperature that began to affect him. The pressure was mounting, and it wasn’t just the stove that was heating up.

The rhythm of the kitchen was faster now. He could no longer use the excuse of being a beginner. The other cooks had stopped offering constant corrections. His mistakes were starting to become less forgivable. They had all noticed the progress he’d made—and with that came an unspoken expectation.

“Move quicker, Kazuya. Faster with the garnishes!” Takashi barked as Kazuya fumbled with a delicate plate of karaage. The fried chicken pieces were supposed to be crisp, golden brown, a perfect balance between crunchy and tender. Instead, they were a bit overdone—crispy, yes, but bordering on burnt.

His hands shook slightly as he carefully adjusted the pieces.

“Don’t hesitate. You have to know what you’re doing before the moment comes,” Takashi added, more gruffly than usual. “Every second counts. You’re not coding anymore.”

Kazuya swallowed. It wasn’t a criticism, not exactly. Takashi had a way of pushing people to their limits, testing their resolve. But for Kazuya, every criticism felt like a small cut. He had once been at the top of his field, respected for his expertise in software engineering, and now, here he was, struggling to keep pace in a kitchen where every moment felt like a sprint.

With the sound of the service bell ringing through the room, Kazuya set the karaage down carefully. He didn’t look at Takashi. He knew the plate wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t close. But it had to be sent out.

THE WEIGHT OF EXPECTATIONS

Lunch service came and went, and by the time the rush slowed, Kazuya was left feeling drained. His hands still stung from the blisters that had yet to heal. His shoulders were stiff from constant movement. He could feel the weight of his inadequacies pressing down on him. He wasn’t fast enough. Not precise enough.

“Oi, Kazuya!” It was Hiroshi again, this time with a tray of dishes. “I need you to grab that order of gyoza. It’s been sitting there for too long.”

Kazuya nodded wordlessly and took the tray, but as he turned to the pass, a nagging doubt gnawed at him.

He wasn’t good enough. Not fast enough.

The thought followed him around like a shadow. Every task felt like a test. A misstep meant failure, and failure meant going back to where he had been—a place where he had nearly taken his own life, a place where nothing seemed worth trying for. But here, in this bustling kitchen, failure was real. It wasn’t abstract. The cost wasn’t just mental; it was physical.

There were no “undo” buttons in cooking.

The plate of gyoza was perfectly crispy on the outside, but as Kazuya placed it in front of a customer, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had truly earned the privilege of standing behind the stove. Was he really capable of building a life from the rubble of his past? Or was he just pretending, hoping that time would somehow make things easier?

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He tried to shake the thought, but it stuck to him like a shadow.

A QUIET CONVERSATION

The dinner rush arrived, and the kitchen was chaotic once again. But this time, there was a slight difference in the atmosphere. Instead of the usual back-and-forth of orders and corrections, a quieter sense of urgency filled the air. The other cooks were moving with purpose, no one stopping to chat or joke around. Kazuya felt the shift but didn’t know how to address it. The pressure was heavier now. The silence wasn’t just a break between bursts of work—it was a reminder that everyone was watching, waiting for him to step up.

After the service slowed down, Kazuya found himself alone at the prep table, staring at the pile of chopped vegetables in front of him. He was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. The weight of his failures—the fear of being exposed as incapable—pressed against his chest.

“You alright?” A voice broke his concentration.

It was Emi, standing at the door with a towel draped over her shoulder. Her eyes were kind, but there was a sharpness in her gaze, as if she had been paying attention to him all along.

Kazuya didn’t respond at first, not sure what to say. What could he say? He wasn’t sure he even understood his own thoughts. But then she took a step closer, resting her arms on the counter.

“You’ve been at this for a while,” she said gently. “I see you pushing yourself. You know, you don’t have to do everything at once.”

Kazuya looked up, startled by the sincerity in her voice. Emi had always been easygoing, but he didn’t realize she’d been watching him struggle in silence.

“I feel like I’m failing,” he admitted, his voice low. “Everything is harder than I thought it would be. I’m not as fast as they want me to be, and I’m not perfect…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

Emi didn’t interrupt. She just let him speak, her eyes patient and understanding.

“It’s okay,” she finally said. “You’re not supposed to be perfect. None of us are. And none of us get everything right the first time. Or the second time. Hell, even after five years, I still mess up. But we’re here, we’re learning, and we’re doing it together.”

Kazuya let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. For the first time all day, the tightness in his chest loosened, if only a little.

“I’m still learning,” he murmured. “I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this.”

Emi gave him a soft smile. “None of us are born knowing how to cook. But we don’t stop trying. That’s the difference. You’ve already made it further than you think.”

Kazuya nodded slowly, the words sinking into him. He had spent so long believing that success was something you either had or you didn’t. But maybe, just maybe, success wasn’t something to be achieved in an instant. Maybe it was something that came over time—through persistence, patience, and the willingness to make mistakes.

He didn’t have all the answers. But for the first time, he realized that maybe the answers weren’t the point. The point was to keep moving forward.

And that, he could do.

THE REST OF THE NIGHT

The rest of the shift went by in a blur. Orders came in fast, but Kazuya didn’t feel quite as rushed as he had before. His movements, while not flawless, were more confident. The pressure was still there, but now, it didn’t feel like an enemy. It felt like a challenge—one he was finally starting to understand.

By the time the last plate was cleaned and the kitchen was quiet, Kazuya stood at the back door of the izakaya, the cool night air washing over him. His hands still ached, his shoulders still felt stiff, but he had survived the day.

And that, he realized, was enough for now.