You never thought the city would feel so big until you moved here. Back home, the streets were quiet, faces were familiar, and the most exciting thing to happen was when the bakery ran out of pandesal before 6 a.m. But now, you were standing in a place where the skyline glittered at night and the air buzzed with ambition. You’d accepted a marketing position at a mid-sized firm, packed your things, and arrived with a folder full of documents that were supposed to guarantee a cozy one-bedroom apartment. Except… someone at the leasing office mixed up your unit with another applicant’s, and “cozy” became “occupied.” The only quick fix the manager could offer was a temporary arrangement: share a place with an existing tenant until your own lease was sorted.

That’s how you met him.

Geto Suguru. Early thirties, tall, with hair that looked like it had better things to do than be tamed, and eyes that weighed people before deciding if they were worth the effort. He’d lived in the apartment for eight years, a rare city veteran in a sea of transients, and he clearly had a system. Everything had its place: shoes lined by the door in perfect symmetry, mugs hung on identical hooks, plants all facing the same window for “optimal light distribution” (his words). You, in contrast, were still figuring out where to put your spoons.

From day one, he made it clear he wasn’t thrilled about sharing his space. You left a mug on the counter once and caught the faintest twitch in his jaw. You played your music while cooking, and he closed his door. You thought he was rude; he thought you were chaotic.

But slowly, something shifted.

It started the day you found him on the balcony, cigarette dangling from his fingers, shoulders weighed down like he was carrying something invisible. You’d stepped out to water the one potted plant you’d bought for yourself—a scraggly little basil—and caught him staring at the skyline. You didn’t ask what was wrong, but you set down a mug of tea beside him before heading back inside. He didn’t say thank you that night, but the next morning, your basil was sitting in the best sunlight spot.

He taught you how to be sharper, more direct—how not to let your too-polite “sorry”s fill the space when you needed to stand your ground at work. You, in return, dragged him into life again. You convinced him to join you at the Sunday farmer’s market, where he grimaced at overpriced vegetables but still carried your bags. You got him to try the bakery around the corner, even if he grumbled that the bread wasn’t as good as it used to be.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you came home to find your favorite dinner already cooking. “Don’t make it a big deal,” he muttered, but you caught the faintest smile when you took a second helping. He wasn’t grumpy all the time—you’d just had to learn the language he spoke in, one made of small actions instead of big declarations.

By the time your leasing office finally called to say the housing issue had been resolved, your room in his apartment felt more like home than anywhere else in the city. The thought of packing up and leaving made something in your chest tighten. You tried not to linger in the kitchen as you boxed your mugs, tried not to think about how quiet the balcony would feel without him beside you.

The night before your move, you stood by the door with your suitcase, the room dim except for the city lights outside. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like he was memorizing the shape of you in the doorway.

“You’ll keep the basil alive, right?” you asked, trying to sound light.

His voice was quieter than usual. “Only if you come back to check on it.”