For a lot of people, silence is awkward. It just feels so empty, weird almost. But for some reason, quiet comfort became a language between you and Kiyoomi. Most people would've assumed your living situation with each other would be a disaster. But for some reason, you two just click.

You're a science major with back-to-back labs several times a week, stacked exams, PM studies and weekend tutoring shifts. He's a star volleyball player with practice before sunrise, the most precise workouts ever, and very specific laundry preferences.

You've known each other before rooming, a few overlapping gen eds and mutual friends here and there. He wasn't the type to go out of his way for anyone while you were self-kept, nose in books or new chemical material, never missing a deadline. Even when both of you are deemed to be the busiest pair on the planet, you both understood schedules. Boundaries. Space. Time. That was enough.

Then it came to the small things. You'd come to learn how he likes his laundry done. So, when he was busy, you did it for him and left the hamper of folded clothes in his room. You'd pre-fill his water bottle the night before the day you knew he had conditioning early in the morning.

He, on the other hand, would change his playlist to something softer than what he usually plays when he knows that you were studying and needed a quiet environment. Ready-meals would be in the fridge with sticky notes on how long to warm them on it. He'd cook and leave something for you when he knows you'll be back late due to a PM class.

You both acknowledged these little acts, obviously. But still, not much was said. Almost little to nothing. Just rhythms, routines. Two people learning the beat of each other's lives all without making a sound.

It was already dark out and the student parking lot was empty by the time you returned back from a two hour lecture. Kiyoomi was still at the stove, adding stuff to a pot. "Hey, you're back," he greets casually. Seems you won't be eating alone tonight.