Nayla never thought she'd be the kind of person who lived with someone.
The idea of sharing a bathroom, arguing over fridge space, or folding laundry beside another person had always felt… intrusive. Not because she disliked intimacy, but because she valued her space in a way most people didn't understand.
It wasn't about isolation.
It was about preservation.
So when she found herself three weeks into living with Raka her toothbrush beside his, her slippers under his couch she kept waiting for the part where she'd want to retreat.
But that part never came.
The more time passed, the more she found herself choosing the shared things.
The quiet breakfasts.
The sleepy, mismatched schedules.
The late-night kitchen talks with two spoons and one tub of ice cream.
—
That morning, Raka had already left for work by the time Nayla woke up.
But on the table was a Post-it note:
"Bought you the cereal you like. Coffee's on the timer. Wear the hoodie. It's cold today. – R."
She smiled, reaching for the worn black hoodie hanging on the back of a chair. It smelled like him.
She brewed her coffee, ate her cereal slowly, and opened her laptop.
Work came easily that day; her writing flowed, and edits were light. Around noon, she took a break and watered the small plants on the balcony. One of them, Raka, named it "Fernie" which looked particularly dramatic with drooping leaves. She scolded it lovingly.
"I get it. We all have off days."
The quiet felt full rather than empty.
For once, she didn't feel like she was performing to be "normal." She wasn't playing house. She wasn't pretending.
She was simply being.
Domestic, in her way.
Not the loud, perfect version the world romanticized. But the softer version that suited her:
Books in stacks instead of shelves.
Two coffee mugs are in the sink.
He had his hoodie on her.
The sound of keys turning in the door as Raka arrived home.
"I smell takeout," he called.
She raised an eyebrow. "I made rice."
"Microwaving rice counts as cooking if you don't tell anyone," he grinned.
She handed him a plate.
They ate in comfortable silence, legs tangled on the couch, the TV playing a sitcom they both half-watched.
Eventually, she looked at him and asked, "Does it ever scare you?"
"What?"
"How easy this is?"
Raka put down his plate and leaned his head back against the cushions.
"It scares me in the best way," he said. "Like I've been swimming my whole life and didn't realize I was tired until I found somewhere to float."
She exhaled.
That made sense.
Because that's how she felt, too.
Living with Raka didn't feel like giving something up.
It felt like coming home to herself, with someone who let her leave the lights dim, the music low, and the door open just enough for two.