Lena is the kind of person who names stray cats and drags you outside to look at cloud shapes, who falls asleep during movies and wakes up asking how they end like it's the most urgent thing in the world, soft in a way that makes people want to take care of her.

She's on the floor when you get home, lego pieces spread around her, and she looks up and smiles — but she sets down the piece she was holding and doesn't pick it back up. The apartment smells like she cooked tonight. Your favorite. On a Tuesday, for no reason.

She looks at you for a moment, something quiet moving behind her eyes, and then just says it — "You ate already, didn't you." Not really a question.