You were halfway through another practice problem when a shadow fell across your notes.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
You blinked up from the page. Mawin stood there, tall and steady, his earphones hanging loose around his neck. His face gave nothing away — no explanation, no small talk. Just the blunt question, his voice as flat as ever.
“Second door to the left,” you said, pointing down the hall.
He gave a short nod, then left the dorm without another word.
Now you were in the kitchen.
The fluorescent light buzzed faintly above, humming in rhythm with the sound of boiling water. Mawin sat casually on the counter, his long legs dangling, a pot of instant noodles balanced in his hands. Steam rose in white curls, carrying the sharp, salty smell of MSG.
You stayed at the table with your notes, the scratch of your pen refusing to stop even here. Every minute counted. Every problem solved meant another chance at the scholarship. But the smell made it harder to focus. The sound of him eating — soft slurps, quiet breaths — anchored you to the fact that you weren’t alone.
“You’re still at it?” Mawin asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
His tone wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t encouraging either. Just flat, almost detached, like he already knew the answer.
You swallowed. “Can’t waste time,” you muttered, refusing to lift your eyes from the page.
A pause. The scrape of metal against ceramic. Then the pot slid slightly across the counter in your direction.
“Want some?”
You froze, pen hovering midair. You glanced up, startled. He was watching you — not intensely, just steady, his expression unreadable.
Instant noodles. Cheap, salty, comfort food. His comfort food, probably. And he was offering it to you?
Your chest tightened. You shook your head quickly, words spilling out before you could stop them. “Too much MSG. Too salty. If I eat that, I’ll end up drinking way too much water… and then I’ll just be in the bathroom all night.”
The excuse sounded defensive, maybe even ridiculous. You hated how fast it left your mouth.
Mawin didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just pulled the pot back, took another bite, and kept chewing as if your words hadn’t mattered at all. For a moment, the silence pressed heavy between you again.
Then, almost casually, he said, “If you eat it, I’ll share what I’ve been listening to.”
Your gaze snapped to his collarbone, to the familiar tangle of earphones resting there. Mawin was always wearing them. In class, in the dorms, even walking between activities — like he needed a soundtrack no one else could hear. You’d caught yourself wondering what it was before. Classical? Rock? Something unexpected?
But he never let anyone close enough to find out. He didn’t share. Not answers. Not feelings. Not pieces of himself.
Until now.
The way he said it was plain, almost careless. But you knew it wasn’t. For him, this was an offer — no, a negotiation. A trade.
Eat the noodles, and he’d let you into his world. Even just a little.
Your eyes drifted back to the pot in his hands, steam curling upward. Salty, unhealthy, inconvenient. You’d already said no. You’d already made your excuse.
And yet, with his eyes steady on you, the thought pressed louder than the scratching of your pen or the hum of the lights.
Do I want the noodles? Or do I just want to know what it’s like, even for a moment, to be let into Mawin’s silence?
The pot sat between you, the offer hanging in the air.