The Veronica Effect

When SHE began her first job as a part time sales girl in a department store, selling lingerie to high-end clients, she realised quickly that she hated every minute of it.

Hate came easily to her-like hunger, sleep, sex. But this was new. Dislike she knew. Annoyance, often. But this urge, to burn a place down and dance on its ashes, surprised her.

It started with the small things.

Approaching strangers who clearly wanted to be left alone. Asking if they needed a bra fitting, suggesting they might have been wearing the wrong size all their lives. Talking about sales, discounted erotic sets designed to make partners drool. It felt obscene. What someone wore beneath their clothes was private. Not even friends should discuss it. Certainly not strangers.

So she did the minimum. Walked the store. Handed out pamphlets. Men, women, old, young-it didn’t matter, as long as her boss didn’t notice.

As a loner who struggled to articulate her own desires, she believed the world functioned just fine in its ignorance. Each morning, she dragged herself into a place she despised, a waking nightmare that she endured.

It was during her second year of college that she first read about Saint-Tropez : watching images of pristine waters and endless beaches—and knew it was a place she had to visit.

Among the few things she liked were eating, travelling, and sleeping. Exactly in that order.

Food did to her what fuel does to a fire about to die. Life was always half-empty; food filled the rest.

She worked relentlessly for a scholarship to pursue a master’s degree at one of the most prestigious universities in her country, maintaining decent grades alongside it. The faster she secured a good job, the sooner she could save and start travelling.

Saint-Tropez was sixth on her list. Six years away, she calculated. Three years of study, three years of work. Two destinations per year. Still too far.

When choosing where to go, her priorities were food, specific locations, and certain cuisines. And within those cuisines, certain dishes.

One evening she discovered a patisserie that sold fruit pastries shaped exactly like the fruits they represented. A strawberry pastry looked like a real strawberry—pink, glossy, with a delicate crunch that shattered under her teeth to reveal soft custard laced with jam, cream, and fruit. A mango pastry crunched, then collapsed, releasing a nectar that tasted almost obscene in its sweetness.

The bakery sold only tarts, fruit pastries, and cakes. It opened at six in the morning, and by then people were already lined up, waiting for a piece of heaven.

She felt a hollow open in her chest.

She had always known she craved sweetness, but she had never understood the texture she was searching for. But this—crunch, then flow, then sponge—layered flavours unlocking something buried deep inside her.

Behind that door sat the girl she had never allowed herself to be.

She didn’t laugh easily. She thought too long before speaking and often said nothing at all. Loud sounds startled her. She cried easily.

A half-lived life.

And yet, every time she ate a dessert she truly liked, she changed—for months.

She became her opposite.

She laughed loudly. She spoke without hesitation. She made her opinions clear. She enjoyed every breath she took. Sleep deepened. Sex became intoxicating. The air felt heavier, richer.

She named her Veronica.

Veronica emerged without warning, like ants finding sugar. She took control, tied up loose ends, surprised everyone—including SHE—and then vanished just as suddenly. No signs. No fading.

While Veronica existed, SHE watched from a distance, unable to look away. Like the most addictive game running endlessly.

Not all desserts worked the same.

A warm, gooey chocolate lava cake released Veronica slowly, the effect building over months. The best one she ever had lasted seven months. It had been baked by a friend’s aunt for her anniversary—one small batch, made with care. SHE only got a small piece.

A crunchy apple pie once acted like a shot of cocaine—instant, intense, the effect gone in weeks. She remembered the last one clearly: an old woman at a bake sale, raising money for a cause she barely noticed as she walked in and bought a few slices.

A spongy cake kept Veronica steady—calm confidence, controlled joy.

Most desserts failed. They left her unchanged. Confused. She couldn’t predict what would work, how long it would last, or how it would end.

Over years of experimentation—accidental and deliberate—patterns emerged.

Creamy textures lasted longer but never peaked. Crunchy ones hit fast and hard, then burned out. Freshness mattered immensely.

And most importantly: the emotion of the person who made it.

She always enquired afterwards when she knew she had offered Veronica an offering. Who made it? What was the occasion? Where did they live? How old were they? Questions that came across as funny, nonsensical, even intrusive to anyone else. But to her, it was the least she could do to acknowledge the generous stranger whose act of unknown kindness had altered her.

Store-bought desserts mostly did nothing, even the best of them. But there was always the odd, unexpected surprise.

The strongest effects came from food made out of selfless love—for someone else. A simple homemade sponge cake could make her feel invincible. Tragically, these desserts were never meant for her. She was always given a share—love passed second-hand.

Did Veronica feed on love?

She didn’t know.

Love couldn’t be demanded. If it came, it came.

But texture—texture she could control.

So far, she had only experienced two at once: a crunchy exterior crumbling into a soft, flowing custard. Together, it would release Veronica either to stay for months or blaze through a few wild weeks where she experienced life unfettered by her own apprehensions.

But what if she found the perfect balance?

The ultimate dessert—one that crunched and crumbled slowly, without hurry, into a soft, volcanic custard that held its density without shame, followed by a third element: spongy, sweet-and-tart fruit pieces, mellowed by time, forgetting their initial brightness.

A single unison, yet each standing apart.

She didn’t know this was possible until she read about a pastry that offered three.

Crunchy.Creamy.Spongy.

All in one bite.It could be the key .

The pastry shop was family-owned. The original chef - an eighty-nine-year-old woman, had run it for over sixty-five years. Now her children baked beside her, following the same recipe.

Something that survived that long had to be driven by love.

She could feel it.

She decided she wouldn’t wait six years.

This part-time job through college would speed things up. She saved what she could. She would go for two months. Maybe longer. One bite might change her life.

This job, that she hated - would be effortless for Veronica. Not that she intended to work after the trip.

Veronica might emerge this time and never leave.What will she do then? The possibilities were endless . While Veronica fed & worked through her challenges, SHE would finally have time to learn what SHE wants to do.

No more deep breaths before approaching strangers.

No more forced eye contact.

No more stammering.

And most importantly-no more shame.

No one could humiliate her unless she allowed it.And she always had.

That would stop.

The thought brought a spring to her step, a faint smile to her lips, as she returned to her tasks, thinking of them as the final steps before reaching the peak of a mountain. Six more months to go.

The last mile.

Soon, Veronica would come out of her cage, once and for all.

She had to believe this.

She smiled again, knowing it was her only truth.