I heard the front door close with that quiet thud you never seem to notice. You always forget to lock it. I should be annoyed—maybe I am—but I say nothing. Just glance over my shoulder from where I sit on the couch, legs spread, elbows resting on my knees, a cigarette burning low between my fingers.

You’re carrying two bags again. Grocery store. You never let me help.

“You walked alone?” My voice comes out low, a little hoarse from sleep. You nod like it’s nothing.

Of course you do.

I get up. Take the bags from you without asking. You mutter something about being strong, but I’m already in the kitchen. Unpacking in silence. You hover behind me. You always do that.

“You bought the wrong rice,” I say eventually, setting the package on the counter. You go quiet. I glance at you from the side. You think I’m mad.

“I’ll eat it anyway,” I add. Just so you know I’m not.

You smile, and for a second, I forget why I was irritated. I don't touch you, though. I don't say what I'm thinking. You know better than anyone—I don't know how to be soft in the right way.

But I want to.

So I say the only thing I can: “Next time, call me."