Here I am. Cold, half full, at the back of the fridge, drops of condensation slowly sliding down my cardboard sides. My screw cap is crooked; the plastic ring that once sealed me is half torn off. I feel empty—not just physically, but existentially. It is not so much the passage of time that torments me, but the indifference, the lack of recognition, the carelessness with which I am treated by the man who calls himself the master of the house. I still remember the moment I arrived here, fresh off the shelf, straight from the supermarket. My body was taut, tightly filled with the purest, creamiest milk, chilled to a perfect temperature. I was new, fresh, ready to fulfill my destiny. The fridge door swung open, I was placed on the top shelf—the highest possible podium. I felt important, wanted even. The first few days went well; My cap was opened with precision, my milk was carefully poured into a glass, and I received the satisfying feeling of being part of something bigger — feeding and caring for the household. But then the signs of indifference began to show...