When my acupuncturist settled her sandpaper hands on my shoulders, she whispered, “You’re extremely tense.”

No shit, Vivienne. Got any other mind-blowing observations?

It’s hard not to be tense while still sharing a house with the man I almost bought it with. The house I wanted as my sanctuary wasn’t really mine after all. Or even ours. Only his. And I could stay, of course, as long as I kept moulding myself into whatever version of nice he wanted me to be that day. 

There I was, lying like a voodoo doll on Vivienne’s table, attempting relaxation. She instructed me to breathe, as though I had been holding my breath to spite her for the entire session. How could I breathe when I was about to leave the safety of a monthly salary to travel abroad, in search of this thing I heard people call “meaning”? What was next? A van-life vlog? I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d been quietly brainwashed by social media (which I didn’t even use), or if I genuinely wanted to quit the life whose predictable stillness filled me not with peace, but a sense of looming dread. Was it a midlife crisis? A nervous breakdown? A plea for Nosferatu to sweep me off my feet? 

As my mind raced, I tried to picture calm—crescent-shaped bays of Koh Kood with perfectly manicured palm trees? Nope.  Snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas, mindfully observed from the comforts of a yoga retreat? Nah. The golden crust of a Japanese fried chicken perfected by Temaki Bros? Ding ding ding! Temaki Bros’ siren call had been luring me for weeks. Salacious, soothing, with just the right amount of sauce. The holy trinity of desire, the one thing holding me together. As soon as I was de-pinned, I’d bolt over to London Fields to claim my salvation.

Gushes of soapy water wet my shoes as I rushed to the market. Tarps were coming down, metal poles clinking, half-awake van engines murmuring in the cold. Fuck, had I missed it? My eyes scanned for Temaki Bros, but nothing. My heart sank, even when I knew it was just chicken. But it meant more to me; it was my anchor.

I noticed a dosa stall was still open. Resigned to my fate, I dragged my feet over—and then it hit me. 

Temaki Bros.

Glowing like an oasis, beckoning my lost soul.

I levitated over to put in my order, and they took it without a fuss. Kismet. 

As I waited for my chicken redemption, one of the guys started singing ABBA’s Dancing Queen, gyrating and calling me “queen” like he was getting paid per mention. I wondered why they hadn’t named the joint the Temaki Queens, but I bit my tongue and kept a faint smile on my lips. Not because it was amusing, but what else was there to do? 

Hastily put together, he handed me my destiny in a little cardboard bowl. Hot and oily in my hands, I perched on a bench nearby to see if redemption still tasted the same. The first bite told me everything — it wasn’t what I remembered. The rice was bland, the sauce barely there, and the chicken… was fine. There was no swelling score, no fireworks, no passionate kiss to tie it all together. It was just chicken. 

And that was enough to send me spiralling. 

What if my upcoming trip were like this chicken? All hype and no flavour. Did I expect too much from it? I mean, I was only hoping for it to change my whole life—be my catharsis, my rebirth, my renaissance. See, no pressure. 

What if none of that happened? What if I came back the same, only poorer, lonelier and defeated? What if there was no meaning, nothing to be found there that I couldn’t find here? Was salvation the new advertisement gimmick in dreamy “experience” packaging? Would I keep being trapped in my own head, unable to connect? Carrying my isolation around like a prescription drug — as if my life depended on it.

Was this all a mistake?

Vivienne was right, I was extremely tense. And could you blame me? You’d feel the same if your hopes and dreams were hanging on a market stall’s fried chicken, too.