Night air, quiet windows, and two lonely hearts healing through food.
The hallway was dim, soft yellow light spilling from the paper lantern above the elevator. Arohi stood before his door with her lunchbox still warm in her hands, heart thudding a little louder than usual. She hadn't told him she was coming, but today had been too long. A project delay. A passive-aggressive coworker. And then, the thought of hot sambhar rice with mango pickle, made the way her mother used to, had felt like the only thing worth holding onto.
She hesitated for a second.
Then she knocked, once, gently.
A few beats later, the door cracked open. Natsuo peeked through, hair a little messy, eyes a little surprised—but not displeased.
"Arohi?"
"I brought sambhar rice," she said, lifting the lunchbox like an offering. "And pickle. It's… a comfort thing."
He blinked. Then gave a small nod, stepping aside.
She took off her shoes at the genkan. His apartment was quiet, minimalist, much like him—earth-toned cushions, a lone ceramic mug on the coffee table, a dark curtain fluttering at the open window. It smelled like cedar and something faintly floral. He closed the door behind her without a word.
"I wasn't planning to intrude," she said, awkwardly shifting her weight, "but I figured… maybe you hadn't eaten either."
He glanced at the lunchbox. "I haven't."
She gave a small, tired laugh. "Perfect."
They made their way to the kitchen. It wasn't cluttered—just honest. A cutting board with scallions. A rice cooker tucked into the corner. A steel ladle hanging by a magnetic strip.
"Do you want to heat the sambhar?" she asked.
He nodded, pulling out a small pot. "I can do the miso too."
Together, they moved in a quiet rhythm—two people from very different kitchens, somehow finding the same tempo. She opened her lunchbox and gently poured the sambhar into the pot, letting the tamarind-laced scent fill the room. He mixed miso paste into hot dashi broth, stirring slowly.
A small clink of jars, a simmering of soup, and the warmth of shared breath.
She glanced sideways at him. "You ever try sambhar before?"
He shook his head. "Only heard of it in anime food montages."
She smiled. "This one's extra spicy. The kind that clings to your soul."
He chuckled. "Sounds dangerous."
"And the mango pickle?" she asked, holding up the jar like it were something sacred.
He looked intrigued. "What's in it?"
"Mango, mustard oil, fenugreek, and enough chilli powder to make your ancestors sneeze."
He grinned. "That's oddly poetic."
Once everything was warm, they set up near the balcony window. A soft breeze drifted in, bringing in the distant sounds of city life—muted scooter horns, the occasional bark, and faint music from a nearby izakaya. The view wasn't grand—just rooftops and scattered lights—but it felt intimate. Real.
They sat cross-legged on a large woven mat. She laid out plastic containers like temple offerings: rice, sambhar, pickle, and a small packet of papad she'd crisped earlier. He placed the miso soup gently beside it, along with two mismatched ceramic bowls.
Arohi spooned out portions. He accepted the plate with both hands, and for a moment, he just looked at the food.
"This… looks like memory," he said quietly.
She blinked, touched. "It is."
He took a cautious bite of the sambhar rice. Then paused.
"That good?" she teased.
His expression turned serious. "This is... better than most things I've eaten this month."
She blushed. "You flatter me."
"No," he said. "I mean it."
For a while, they ate in a comfortable silence. Occasionally, she caught him staring—not at her, but at the jar of pickle like it was some mythical relic.
He finally asked, "Why do you keep it in a jar that small?"
She laughed. "Because if I carry a big one, I'll eat it all in two days."
He nodded solemnly. "Smart."
As the last of the sambhar was scraped clean, the evening air cooled. The curtain flapped gently as the sounds outside began to dim. Arohi leaned back against the wall, stomach full, heart unusually light.
"I miss this," she murmured.
"Back home?" he asked.
She nodded. "There, if you show up at a friend's place with food, you're immediately family."
He nodded. "Here, we text for three days and still feel guilty showing up."
She chuckled, then hesitated. "Is that why you never invite anyone over?"
His gaze faltered for a second.
She immediately softened. "Sorry. That was… too direct."
"No," he said, voice low. "It's okay."
He looked around, like seeing his own space anew. "This apartment... feels like a shell sometimes. I've lived here for three years, but it doesn't feel like home. Just somewhere I return to."
"Not home?" she asked gently.
He stirred the leftover miso soup, still faintly steaming. "Too many expectations tied to the idea of 'home.' Music deadlines. Family calls. Eyes that expect me to become someone I don't recognize. So I keep this space neutral. Quiet."
She was quiet for a moment. Then reached for the pickle jar, scooping out a little onto her plate.
"Sometimes," she said, "home is just warm rice and pickle shared with someone who understands silence."
He looked at her then, really looked. Under the pale glow of the streetlight slipping through the curtains, her face was calm. Soft. Safe.
And for the first time in a while, he didn't feel the need to hide.
"Thanks," he said.
"For what?"
"For showing up."
She smiled.
They stayed there for a while longer, not needing to speak. Just two people sitting with their tiredness and their food and the small peace of having someone around.
Finally, as the clock ticked toward 10, she stood up, brushing her kurta. "I should get going."
He nodded, walking her to the door. The hallway was quiet now, the city outside settling down.
At the threshold, she turned.
"I'll bring something different next time," she said.
He thought for a second. "Don't change the pickle."
She laughed. "Never."
He held the door for a second longer than needed. Then softly said, "Be safe."
She nodded and turned to go.
Inside her apartment, she placed the empty lunchbox in the sink and opened her window. Somewhere in the faint Tokyo sky, a single star blinked through the haze. The city was loud and full of strangers—but tonight, it felt one person lighter.
She hugged her knees on the bed, the scent of sambhar still clinging faintly to her sleeves.
And for the first time in a long time, she slept without earphones in.