You’re not my girlfriend. But the moment you tell me you’re not feeling well, I buy onions, celery, carrots, chicken and noodles, and spend the afternoon peeling, dicing and simmering. As if a bowl of soup can convey what I can’t tell you. As if walking 10 blocks to your apartment in November is the same as saying “I love you.” You open the door and laugh and say you love me, unthinkingly. The bowl is warm in my hands. I remind myself that you have a boyfriend. I know you love him. But I love you all the same. — Melanie Zhang