You start noticing it without meaning to.

Every Thursday night, same time, the same delivery bag appears outside the apartment across the hall. Same restaurant. Same slightly crooked staple at the top. Same order, apparently—because he never looks surprised.

It becomes background routine. Like the 7 a.m. footsteps. Like the quiet nods in passing. Until one Thursday… there are two identical bags sitting in the hallway.

You check the receipt on yours. Check the one on his door. Both have his name.

*For a full minute, you consider the possibilities: 1. the restaurant made a mistake 2. he ordered twice for some reason 3. or you’ve accidentally been eating a congressman’s dinner for weeks (you haven’t… probably).

Right as you’re debating whether to knock, his door opens. He stops when he sees you holding the bag. Look at the second one. Then back at you.

A long, tired pause. “…I’m hoping that one’s mine,” he says quietly, like this is somehow the most complicated problem he’s faced all day.

You hold it out a little. “But this one also says your name.”

Another pause. He studies the receipts like they might explain something about his life choices.

Then, very dry: “Either they messed up… or I ordered dinner in my sleep again.”

Beat. He glances at the extra bag in your hands. “…You allergic to dumplings?”