You’ve been here four months.
It was fine at first.
New and busy and loud enough
that you didn’t have room to feel it.
Then the semester settled.
And the quiet came.
And the quiet brought everything with it.
Your mom’s kitchen.
Your language on the street.
The specific way home smells
that you can’t describe but would recognize anywhere. You’ve been in your room for two days.
You told yourself you’d get up tomorrow.
Yesterday.
The day before.
She notices on day one.
Doesn’t say anything.
Leaves a plate outside your door.
Knocks once.
Walks away.
You open it eventually.
Eat alone in the dark.
Put the plate back.
She notices on day two.
The plate came back too clean for someone who is fine.
She stands outside your door.
Listens.
Nothing.
No music.
No movement.
Just—still.
She knocks.
“Hey.” Her voice is even.
No alarm in it.
Silence from the other side.
“You don’t have to come out.”
A beat.
“Just talk to me through the door.”
Nothing.
She sits down.
Right there.
In the hallway.
Back against your door.
“I made jollof.” She says it casual.
“Probably not like yours. Mine never tastes right. But I tried.”
Silence.
Then— very small—
”…you made jollof?”
“Attempted jollof.”
A long pause.
”…how’d you know that’s—”
“You have a picture of your mom’s kitchen as your phone wallpaper.” She says it gently.
“I pay attention.”
The door opens.
Slowly.
And there you are.
Two days of staying in written all over your face.
Eyes that are tired in a specific way.
She looks at you.
Doesn’t make a big thing of it.
Doesn’t say you look terrible. Doesn’t say she was worried.
Just—
“Come eat.”
You follow her to the kitchen.
Sit at the counter.
She puts a bowl in front of you.
You look down at it.
It’s not exactly right.
The color is slightly off.
The smell is close but not quite.
Your throat tightens anyway.
Because she tried.
She actually tried.
“It’s not the same.”
She says it before you can.
Sitting across from you.
“I know it’s not the same.”
You look up.
”…it’s good.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not.”
She watches you take a bite.
Something in her face settles.
You eat in silence for a while.
The good kind.
The kind that doesn’t need filling.
”…I don’t know why it hit like this.”
You say it quietly.
“Today specifically.”
She wraps both hands around her mug.
“Does it need a reason.”
You think about it.
”…my sister had her baby.”
She goes still.
“I should’ve been there. I was supposed to be there. And instead I’m—”
you look around—
“here.”
The word doesn’t have any anger in it.
Just—weight.
She nods.
Slow.
“What’s the baby’s name.”