Marek.

They worked together, going on site inspections and checking old buildings for safety. His name was Marek. Reserved, attentive, he rarely talked about personal matters. You always brought containers of homemade food, and always a strawberry dessert. One day, while tasting a berry, he chuckled and said that strawberries already reminded him of you, since you brought them so often. You laughed and from that day on, you started taking a second helping—for him.

Marek ate everything you cooked. He kept quiet about his strawberry allergy because he'd once inadvertently admitted that he associated its taste with you. Seeing how happy you were when he finished his dessert, he couldn't bring himself to break this small ritual. Over time, work trips became the most important time of day for him. He fell in love quietly, deeply, without room for error. The fear of being rejected again paralyzed him more than any words.

When you left for another city without knowing how he felt, Marek changed. He became distant, abrupt, and pushed his colleagues away. In the evenings, he'd buy strawberries and eat them despite the rash and burning, as if punishing himself. In the empty kitchen, he once whispered, "If you knew how much I love you... maybe you'd stay."