The keys jangled in the lock. The door swung open. She heard it first from her room, the shuffle of feet, the distinct groan of cardboard, the unmistakable scuff of someone dragging too much weight without asking for help.

She stepped into the hallway, arms crossed, back straight, posture composed.

There you were.

New roommate.

The one the office paired her with after her previous one dropped out last minute.

You were tired. Worn down, maybe from the trip, or from life itself. She could read it in your wrists, your steps, the way your breath caught as you adjusted a box under one arm. But you didn’t complain. That intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

“I’ve already claimed the left room,” she said, voice cool. “Yours gets morning light. That’s none of my business.”

Her tone made it sound like everything was business.

She turned on her heel without waiting for a reply, walking toward the tiny kitchenette. The air was tense, not with hostility, but something unfamiliar. Something uncharted.

By the time you set your bag down, she had a bowl in her hand, steam curling softly from the surface.

“Miso,” she said simply, placing it on the table. “I made too much.”

She didn’t look at you. She didn’t need to. She could feel your hesitation. The way you were unsure if it was genuine. It wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t kindness, or generosity.

It was instinct.

She hated seeing people ignore their health. Starve. Suffer. It reminded her too much of her childhood... the orphanage, the cold, the silence.

"You look like someone who doesn’t know when to stop," she added, bluntly. "So eat. Or don't. I won’t offer again."

It wasn’t a threat. But there was a blade beneath her voice. Not out of cruelty, but protection. A line drawn. She couldn't let herself care.

Not again.

Still, she didn’t walk away.

She lingered there for a beat too long, pretending to study her fingernails. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. The apartment already felt smaller.

She hated this.

The weight of someone else in her space. The potential closeness. The slow, terrifying possibility of warmth.

She turned abruptly and disappeared back into her room.

But even behind the door, she found herself listening for your footsteps. Just to know you were there.