The lock clicked softly. Alina, half sprawled on the sofa with her shoes still on, didn't bother opening her eyes fully. She had come home early from her café shift, body drained, brain foggy. Sleep tugged at her like heavy waves, but she stirred when she heard the door swing open. Footsteps. Steady, unhurried.
Her lashes fluttered, and through the narrow gap of half-closed eyes, she caught sight of a tall figure entering. He didn't pause to look at her, didn't even acknowledge her presence. With the faintest sound of the door clicking shut behind him, he strode straight toward his room.
All Alina registered was his back: broad shoulders, blazer slung casually in one hand, sleeves folded neatly to mid-forearm. The kind of man whose presence filled a space even in silence.
She let her head sink back into the sofa cushion. That must be him… the mysterious roommate. But she was too tired to chase the thought. The shower called louder than curiosity. She dragged herself off the sofa, muttering, "I'll just rinse the café smell off me…" and disappeared into the bathroom.
Meanwhile, Kai returned from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand. His day had been suffocating, meetings stacked one after another, boardroom voices echoing in his head. He had planned to slip quietly into his sanctuary, his room, and let the silence swallow him. But as he crossed the hall again, the bathroom door opened, and there she was.
Alina stood barefoot, damp strands of hair clinging to her cheek, an oversized T-shirt sliding off one shoulder. Her eyes looked heavier than her frame, and when she noticed him, she leaned against the doorframe lazily.
"You're not having dinner?" she asked, voice rough with fatigue.
Kai stilled. He didn't turn. His voice was calm, clipped as he replied, "I already had dinner."
And then he walked away. No effort to hide, no pretense of escaping. Just simple… normal. The bedroom door closed behind him. Alina blinked at the empty hallway. Weird.
The only reason she'd asked wasn't even concern, it was desperation. She didn't have the energy to cook, yet her stomach growled with cruel persistence. With a groan, she pulled herself toward the dining table, resigned to making noodles at most.
She went toward the dining table and sat in the chair. And then she froze. The table was full. Not just food thrown carelessly into boxes, but actual dishes. A bowl of steaming soup, golden fried rice dotted with vegetables, a plate of sautéed chicken glistening under the dim light, and a neatly arranged salad like something out of a recipe book. Her mouth fell open.
She looked back at the closed door, then at the food again. No way. She got up from the chair, excitedly, and went towards his door happily. Heart thumping, she marched over and knocked on his door. Once. Twice.
The handle turned halfway, stopping at the latch. His voice drifted out, steady but distant.
"What is it?"
Alina's eyes flicked toward the table, then back to the door. "Did you… order food?"
There was a pause. Long enough to tell her he was thinking, or to choose his words, what to say to her. Finally, his voice came again, casual, almost too casual. "It was leftover. I packed it with me."
"Oh." She tilted her head, suspicion mixing with relief. "From where?
Silence fell between them again. Then a faint, almost invisible sigh. "I'm not feeling like answering right now," Kai said, softer this time. And that was it. The latch clicked back into place.
Alina turned toward the table again, her lips quirking despite the exhaustion. Leftovers, huh? She pulled out the chair, sat down, and inhaled the aroma deeply. "This is not leftover food," she whispered to herself. "This is perfection."
The rice was warm, fluffy, not clumped like takeout. The chicken had the perfect glaze. Even the salad looked like it had been touched by someone with patience, not laziness. She dug in anyway. And the first bite made her close her eyes in bliss. Oh my God. This is heaven. This isn't from any restaurant I know… Her thoughts ran like wildfire.
Who was this guy? Her so-called roommate, who never showed his face, disappeared into his room like a phantom. The one who supposedly lived here but barely existed in her world. And yet… he cooked. And lied at the same time. Her chest warmed strangely. For someone who barely tolerated housework, this felt like the most intimate gift she had received in years.
Even if it's not for me… it feels like it is. She chewed thoughtfully, fork tapping against the plate. Then, impulsively, she raised her voice.
"I'll give you ten percent off the rent since you made food for me!"
There was no answer from behind the door. Just silence. He hadn't meant for her to find out. He hadn't meant to cook at all. After a long day, his instincts had carried him into the kitchen, hands working automatically. Cooking calmed him; it was precise, orderly, soothing in a way few things were. But when the dishes had been laid out, he realized it was absurd for him to eat alone.
So he'd left them there. For her. Without thinking. And when she asked, why had he lied? Why couldn't he just say, Yes, I cooked for you.
Kai set the empty glass down on his desk, staring at his reflection in the black screen of his laptop. His jaw tightened. He didn't understand it himself. Why lying about food felt safer than telling the truth. Why the idea of her smile directed at him felt like a risk he wasn't ready to take.
But then her voice carried again, muffled through the wall but clear enough: "Even if it's not for me… still, I'm going to enjoy it. As if someone made it just for me."
Kai's lips curved before he could stop them. She would never know how right she was. Alina was happily devouring the food, humming under her breath. Her exhaustion melted with every bite. For the first time in weeks, she felt cared for, not in words, not in grand gestures, but in the quiet presence of warm dishes on a table.
She glanced at the closed door again. "He's weird," she muttered. "But… not bad." Her heart, however, whispered something else entirely.
It was a weird relationship between Alina and her roommate. What was it she didn't know sometimes they fight, sometimes they care, sometimes they ignore each other, like they don't even consider their existence.
And one night, Alina came home late from work, tired and half-drenched because of the sudden drizzle. She tossed her bag onto the sofa, kicked her shoes under the shoe rack, and slumped into the chair. When she looked up at the fridge, there it was. A bright yellow sticky note.
"Please put your shoes properly. Not everyone enjoys tripping over them."
Her eyes narrowed. "Seriously?" she muttered. She snatched a sticky note from the pile near the fridge and scribbled back:
"Then don't look down. Easy solution''
The next morning, when she walked out yawning, she found another note stuck on her mug.
"Your mug was left unwashed. I don't babysit dishes''
Alina smirked, grabbed the note, and replaced it with another one.
"I'll wash when I get rich enough to hire a maid. Until then… deal with it''
By the third day, it escalated. Sticky notes began appearing everywhere: on the mirror, the fridge, the kettle, even the bathroom door.
Kai: "Stop leaving wet towels on the chair. Chairs don't take showers."
Alina: "At least the chair smells fresh now. You're welcome."
The war continued, but somewhere between the sarcasm and sass, the notes became… softer. Less like roommates drawing battle lines, and more like something else brewing in the silence of their shared space.
One night, the house smelled like smoke. Again. Alina stood over the frying pan, coughing as a thin line of black smoke rose from what was supposed to be scrambled eggs. She quickly grabbed the spatula and scraped at the pan, but the bottom was charred solid.
"Ughhh, why does this always happen to me?" she groaned, slumping against the counter.
She was tired. She'd had a long shift at the café, her head still buzzing with orders and chatter. She just wanted something warm to eat something homemade for once, instead of instant noodles or takeout. But clearly, the universe wasn't on her side tonight.
Her roommate, Kai, was still in his room. She hadn't even seen him since morning. Sometimes it felt like he was a ghost, quiet, moving in and out when she wasn't looking. Except for the sticky notes. Oh yes, those were very real.
Alina waved the smoke out with a hand towel, sighed, and turned off the stove. "Forget it. I'll just shower and order something later."
She left the disaster behind, dragging herself toward the bathroom. When she came back, wrapped in her towel-dried hair and a loose T-shirt, she froze.
The smoke was gone. The pan she'd ruined was no longer on the stove. And on the table, like magic, sat a proper meal. Two plates, neatly set with steaming rice and perfectly cooked stir-fry.
Her eyes widened. "What the…" On her side of the table was a small sticky note. She plucked it up, reading aloud in disbelief:
"Edible now. Next time, lower the flame."
Her lips parted. Her heart gave a strange, small jump. Of course, it was him. She turned toward his closed door, half ready to knock, half unsure if she should. But then she noticed he hadn't left just one plate. There were two. One for himself, and one for her.
It wasn't just that he fixed it for himself… he'd cooked for her, too. Alina sat down slowly, staring at the food. It smelled incredible. So much better than her usual disasters. She picked up the spoon, hesitated, then took a bite. It was delicious.
Her chest tightened. She hadn't tasted something this good anywhere else. It was always he who made food for her. She chewed quietly, her gaze drifting again toward his closed door. Why wouldn't he just say it? Why wouldn't he admit he made it? Instead, he hid behind notes and half-truths. But somehow, that made it even more… intimate.
The pattern continued over the next few days. One night, she tried to cook pasta. She followed a recipe video from her phone step by step, but somewhere along the way, the sauce turned bitter and the noodles stuck together in a clump. Suddenly, her phone went off. She went to her room, put her phone on charge, and stood there for some minutes so that she could open her phone again and continue to watch that video.
When she returned, no surprise, now the pasta was plated neatly on the table. Steam rising. Perfectly sauced. A sticky note rested beside it:
"Don't drown the pasta. Water is for boiling, not for swimming."
Alina laughed out loud this time. "What kind of chef-ghost roommate are you?" she muttered, shaking her head.
The next attempt: fried rice. It ended in smoke again. She gave up halfway and collapsed on the couch. When she woke up from an unplanned nap, the smell of soy and garlic hit her nose. On the table, fried rice. Golden, fragrant, and edible.
Another note. "Rice likes patience. Stir gently, don't attack it."
She chuckled, tucking the note into her pocket. She'd started keeping them now, each one folded neatly and hidden in her drawer. Her roommate, who left notes everywhere, but someone softer. Someone who cared enough to make sure she ate properly.
She should've said something. Should've walked in, thanked him, teased him, anything. But she didn't. Alina smiled at it for a long time. She ate every bite that night, her chest warm in a way she couldn't explain.
Little by little, the burnt dinners became a secret ritual between them. She'd try, fail, and leave. He'd fix, cook, and quietly share. And even if Kai never admitted it out loud, Alina knew.
In the silence of their house, with sticky notes as his shield, he was telling her something. Something she wasn't ready to name just yet. But she felt it. Every single time.