kimchi jjigae, a short story

Having a crush is hard—especially the ones who suddenly stop talking to you out of the blue.

No explanation, no closure. Just silence where there used to be something.

In the back of my mind, I was expecting it; however, that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

I haven’t left my flat for a couple of days. I’ve been awake since 9 am — it’s now 1 pm, and I still haven’t left my bed. My body and mind are quietly mourning the loss of an imaginary happiness, and with it, my appetite has faded.

“I want kimchi jjigae,” I mused, the thought startling my body as my stomach rumbled — a reminder that I’d skipped both breakfast and lunch.

“It’s time to get up…”

So I did, slowly gathering myself, preparing to leave the place I call home in search of the ingredients.

At the store, I felt slightly overwhelmed by the number of ingredients in my basket. Not because I didn't know how to make it, but because I hadn't seen this much food in a while. My appetite had been absent for days.

"I need to cook rice first," I thought, and proceeded to make my first real meal in too long.

The water was absolutely freezing as I rinsed and washed the uncooked white grains, yet there was something therapeutic about watching the clear liquid turn cloudy, watching the grains flow and drop back into their hull. I could almost hear my ancestors scolding me if I didn't wash my rice properly—a practice taught from generation to generation.

After eyeing the right amount of water in the bowl, I pressed the on button of my rice cooker and proceeded to start the jjigae, my main source of comfort.

Everyone makes their kimchi jjigae a bit differently.

Heck, I don't even add tofu because I despise it.

I julienned half a white onion and the thicker stems of two spring onions before cutting my pork belly into cubes. The sound of the knife thudding against the chopping board felt like tension being tapped out of me with each cut.

I placed my trusty pot on the stove and turned on the gas. A blue flame flickered to life. I added a bit of oil and let it heat for a minute before adding the spring onion and onion.

A slow sizzle appeared within earshot. I used my wooden chopsticks to stir until everything softened, and the fragrance reached my nose.

I added the pork belly, and the sizzle became louder. I imagined the fat melting with the onion mixture, creating a harmonious blend of richness and caramelisation. I already knew I was off to a great start.

I opened a big pack of store-bought kimchi that had been fermenting in the bag for who knows how long—this is where the real flavour would come from. The fermented tang hit my nostrils, and they flared in surprise, but I smiled. I was glad I chose right.

I dumped the entire content into the pot and heard the sound of fat meeting thick, tangy liquid. Making sure I got every last bit with a spoon, I added a spoonful of sugar, coarse red pepper flakes, and a generous dollop of red pepper paste before opening a bag of store-bought chicken broth and adding another half cup of water.

I mixed everything gently before placing the lid over the pot so it could do its magic, then turned down the heat.

While it simmered, I cleared and set the table, chopped the rest of the spring onion for the finishing touches, and listened to my stomach roar for food. I was hungry—genuinely hungry—for the first time in days.

I mixed my jjigae once more before adding a generous swirl of sesame oil and letting it stew for another ten minutes.

The rice cooker chimed, letting the room know it's ready. I took my rice paddle and opened the lid. Steam hit my face first, followed by the lingering scent of fresh yet sweet rice, saying hello to my nose. I smiled and mixed the rice evenly before letting it steam a bit more.

I tasted the jjigae and immediately applauded myself for how good it tasted. I added the julienned spring onions as the finishing touch and ladled the stew into a bowl before scooping rice into another.

My first real meal was ready, and I was excited.

I took my spoon and scooped out a piece of meat, a kimchi leaf, and a bit of broth. I blew on it carefully and lifted it to my lips. It's hot, zingy, the niggling yet mellow heat—but it made me warm and comforted on the inside.

I was in my own heaven.

I took another scoop, this time with rice, and took a bite. I almost cried with joy at how delicious it is.

As I sat there, alone at my table, steam rising from my bowl, I realised something. The crush who had stopped acknowledging me had left me feeling some type of way. Empty, invisible, like I wasn't worth an explanation. But here I was, choosing to feed myself. Choosing to take care of myself when no one else would.

The kimchi jjigae didn't fix the hurt. The silence still stung, and maybe it would for a while. But with each warm spoonful, I felt a little less hollow. I had made something good with my own hands. I had shown up for myself.

Maybe that's what moving on looks like—not a dramatic moment of closure, but quiet acts of self-love. Getting out of bed. Do my morning skincare. Make a meal. Remembering that I'm worth the effort, even when someone wouldn't.

I took another bite, and for the first time in days, I felt like I might be okay.

Not today, maybe not tomorrow—but eventually.

And that was enough.