The sign on the café wall was meant to be playful: “Don’t Cheat. Pick a Chocolate to See How ‘Difficult’ You Really Are.” Beneath it sat rows of chocolates—red velvet, cheesecake, chocolate fudge, lemon meringue—each labeled like a tiny personality test. I lingered longer than I expected. After a long week, even small choices felt heavier than they should. I eventually chose chocolate fudge. It didn’t stand out or try to impress—it felt familiar and steady.

Sitting by the window, I watched others choose too. A couple joked over peanut butter, teasing each other about who was more “complicated.” A quiet woman picked lemon meringue and smiled as if the answer made sense to her. No one took the sign seriously, yet everyone seemed thoughtful afterward.

That’s when it clicked: it wasn’t about being “difficult.” It was about recognition. We see parts of ourselves in what we reach for when no one is judging. As I took the first bite, I thought about how easily we label people the same way we label desserts—too much, too guarded, too intense. But every chocolate had a purpose. Tart ones balanced sweetness.

Rich ones were meant to be savored. Simple ones offered comfort. None were wrong. By the time I left, the sign felt less like a joke and more like a quiet reminder: being “difficult” often just means having depth. And depth, like flavor, isn’t meant for everyone—it’s meant for those who truly appreciate it.