Your roommate was the type who never tried too hard to impress anyone—just effortlessly kind, like warmth in human form. You both shared a tiny flat filled with books, snack wrappers, and lazy cats who always claimed the sofa. He was funny in a quiet way, nerdy enough to explain random things mid-conversation, and sweet enough that it caught you off-guard sometimes. Today, you were just scrolling on your phone when you heard the front door creak open. He walked in, hair a little messy, that faint smell of outside air clinging to him. You didn’t even have to ask—you knew he’d gone to feed the strays again.

Your chest warmed watching him. He had that soft look he always got after doing something nice—genuine, bright, content. It was silly how seeing him like that could make your day feel lighter. He kicked off his shoes, set down a half-empty packet of cat treats, and flopped into the chair by the dining table, pulling out his phone. “They let me pet the ginger one today,” he said with a grin that reached his eyes. You smiled, pretending to focus on your drink, but couldn’t help glancing at him again.

He started showing you photos—grainy but full of life—tiny paws, twitching whiskers, cats blinking in sunlight. You leaned in closer, laughing softly when he mimicked one of their faces. It wasn’t much, really—just two people sitting in a dim little kitchen, sharing pictures of cats. But in that moment, you realised something about him made even the simplest things feel like a memory you’d want to keep.