SOMETHING SWEET, SOMETHING GONE (Lisa's Story) - Chapter 1: Whisks and What-Ifs

If someone had told me that the love of my life—and the man who’d later break me—would walk into my life holding a piping bag, I would have laughed. But I wasn’t laughing that day at Utalii College, in the middle of our baking lab, sweating over dough and daydreams.

I was in my second year, trying to keep my head down, dreaming of starting a little cake shop one day. I wasn’t flashy. I didn’t party much. I had flour under my nails most days and stayed behind after class to perfect my kneading technique. Baking was my peace—my escape from a world that never seemed to slow down.

And then he walked in.

Daniel Mwangi.

A new transfer student from Mombasa with smooth cocoa skin, a jawline that could cut fondant, and eyes that held something magnetic. You know the type—walks into a room and makes everyone else fade into the background? That was Daniel.

He wasn’t just good-looking. He had this confidence—like he’d already owned a bakery in another life. Like he could charm vanilla out of a bean pod. When he spoke, you listened. When he laughed, you felt it in your chest. I pretended not to care. But inside? I was toast.

We were paired together during cake module practical's. I remember hating the idea at first—I worked better alone. I was meticulous. He was a little too free-spirited, too laid-back, too him. But on the first day we made something together—a lemon sponge with a raspberry glaze—I realized we had something rare. We balanced each other out. My precision. His flair.

He'd tease me constantly. “You bake like you’re preparing for judgment day,” he’d smirk.

“And you bake like you’re performing for a crowd,” I’d snap back, annoyed—but secretly smiling.

One afternoon, as we waited for our cake to rise, I caught him staring at me.

“What?” I asked, brushing flour off my apron.

He shrugged. “You’re the kind of girl who deserves her name on a storefront.”

I didn’t say anything back. But that sentence settled somewhere deep inside me, like sugar dissolving in hot tea.

Weeks turned into months. Late-night study sessions blurred into laughter-filled evenings in the school garden. I’d find myself doodling potential bakery names in my notebook, and he’d sneak up behind me and add little logos or funny slogans.

We kissed for the first time after a school event—Utalii’s annual International Food Fair. I’d baked mini éclairs. He’d made spiced pineapple tarts. We’d spent the whole day serving people and stealing glances across the stall. That night, under the flicker of the streetlamp outside the hostels, he leaned in, all gentle and sure, and said, “You drive me crazy, Lisa.”

Then he kissed me.

The kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re standing in chef whites and crocs.

By the end of the semester, we were practically living in the kitchens. Practicing. Dreaming. Building something neither of us could name yet, but both of us felt. He started talking about a future—a real one. A bakery. A business. A life.

“After school,” he whispered one night, lying next to me after hours, our uniforms tossed on a chair nearby, “we find a place, we open up. You handle the baking. I’ll handle the numbers. We’ll be unstoppable.”

I believed him. Every word.

In those days, there was no cheating, no lies, no late-night fights or gut-wrenching truths. Just stolen kisses, cream-filled dreams, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, I had found the one.

I didn’t know then how wrong I’d be.