I slumped into my rickety dining chair with my steaming bowl of soup in hand, balancing it precariously on my lap. The chair let out a creak that made me wince, but I was too hungry to care if it gave out beneath me. The soup wasn’t anything fancy—just canned chicken noodle I had microwaved to life—but at that moment, it tasted like a Michelin-starred meal. I dug in, slurping up the warm broth like it was the solution to all my problems.
The noodles were mushy, the chicken pieces suspiciously cube-shaped, and the seasoning was probably more salt than actual flavor, but I couldn’t stop. Hunger had its way of lowering standards. Between bites, I stared around my tiny apartment, trying to mentally block out the clutter. The half-empty takeout containers on the coffee table, the mountain of l
