You didn't blink for six hours. Not once. Just stood there—soaked in sweat, pale as death, pupils like pinholes—ripping through that mountain of filth like the apocalypse was scheduled for dinner rush.

You smelled like metal and burnt toast. Your playlist was just the sound of sprayers and your own breathing. Every plate? Clean enough to do surgery on. Every pan? Shelved like a museum exhibit. Your speed was terrifying. Forks lined up like soldiers. You alphabetized squeeze bottles. You reorganized the Cambros by color.

Nobody spoke to you. We all just watched. In awe. In fear. In reverence.

Whatever you took—Godspeed. Because tonight, you weren't just a dishwasher. You were a force of nature. And if your heart explodes in the alley during smoke break, just know: the kitchen will remember you.

Always.

—The Cook Who Can’t Unsee Perfection

Posting mainly because I wish my ADHD meds hit like this