These days, Alina's schedule had quietly shifted, not dramatically, but enough for her to notice the difference. What was the reason… she didn't quite know. Or maybe, deep down, she simply refused to admit it.
She had started waking up earlier than usual, sometimes even before her alarm went off. It wasn't because she suddenly became a morning person, no. It was because the weird alien she called her roommate was no longer around to make breakfast.
At first, it felt oddly peaceful, no sound of utensils, no faint hum of someone moving around in the kitchen. But within a few days, that silence began to feel heavy. She found herself missing the clinking of pans, the rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables, and the aroma that filled the apartment every morning.
One evening, when she came home from the café and noticed a small sticky note stuck to her door. It read, in neat handwriting:
"Won't be here for a week. Business trip!"
She stood there for a moment, rereading it. No greetings, no farewell, just plain and simple. Typical of him. Yet, strangely, her chest tightened.
Since then, her kitchen life had become… experimental. Her roommate, mysterious as he was, had left behind a recipe book on the counter before leaving, as if he'd anticipated she might struggle. Each page was neatly written with notes in the margins, small reminders like "don't overboil this" or "add salt after tasting." It was annoyingly thoughtful.
Some days, her food turned out surprisingly well, so good that even the dishes at five-star restaurants would pale in comparison. She'd take a bite, her eyes widening in disbelief, thinking, "Okay, maybe I can survive without him after all."
But then there were other days. Days when her curry tasted like salty water, or when the omelette somehow burned on the outside and stayed raw inside. On those days, she'd sit by the window, sighing, and mutter, "See what you've done to me, alien."
She had become addicted not to his presence but to his cooking. Every dish he made used to carry a certain warmth, not just flavor, but feeling. It wasn't just food; it was comfort. And now, her stomach might have been full, but her heart felt strangely empty.
At first, she hadn't realized how much he'd been doing. It started with little things: the fridge always full, vegetables freshly washed, fruits neatly arranged, spices organized by color. When something ran out, it magically reappeared the next morning. She had gotten used to it all, the quiet, effortless care that came from a roommate who never said much but noticed everything.
Now, the kitchen looked different. Still clean, but lifeless. The fruits were gone. The vegetables, barely enough for one person.
Ever since Rishi returned, the café had finally started running smoothly again. Maya had been right, introducing the delivery service was their best decision yet. Orders flooded in, and the little chalkboard outside that once read "HELP WANTED" was taken down with a proud smile.
So, Alina switched from full-time to part-time. Her earnings were steady, her workload lighter, and she finally had time for herself. But that free time only made her more aware of the quietness in her house.
She would sometimes walk into the kitchen at night, open the fridge, and just… stand there.
Maybe she wasn't hungry. Maybe she just wanted to see if he'd stocked her favorite fruits again, if somehow, he had come back. She would shake her head, smile faintly, and close it again. "Pathetic," she'd mutter to herself.
Yet the truth was undeniable: her roommate had left a strange void behind, not the kind that came from missing a person, but from missing the small, unspoken comfort that came with them. The warmth of a meal waiting on the table. The a faint smell of coffee in the air.
The quiet assurance that someone was there even if unseen.
And now, in his absence, Alina had begun to realize something she never thought she would: It wasn't the food she was addicted to, it was the feeling of being cared for.
That quiet, invisible care. The way the dishes would already be neatly stacked before she woke up. The aroma of something freshly cooked is waiting on the table. The sticky notes remind her to eat. The extra blanket was folded beside her couch on the nights she fell asleep there. She missed it missed him, though she'd never admit it aloud.
In the kitchen, the upper cupboard used to be crammed with all sorts of things, spices, jars, and snacks she could barely reach, even on her toes. But when Alina opened it, standing precariously on the chair like always, she froze.
It was… empty. Every single item was gone, neatly vanished like it never existed. She blinked, confused, and crouched down to open the lower cupboards, checking if she could find those jars over there. And there they were. All the jars, spices, and groceries were perfectly arranged within her reach.
She ran her fingers over the neatly lined-up containers, a soft laugh escaping her lips.
He had shifted everything. The entire kitchen, the way the drawers opened, the way things were placed, it all felt like it had been subtly rearranged…as if the whole house had been redesigned just to make her life easier.
She turned around slowly, her eyes moving across the space. The details stood out now, things she had missed before.
The sticky note on the bathroom mirror still clung there stubbornly, the ink slightly faded from the steam. "Dry your hair first."
She had always found that note annoying, but now, staring at it, she felt her chest tighten.
He had written it because she always forgot… because she'd end up catching a cold wandering around with wet hair.
Even the standing coat hanger that was there in her roommate's room was no longer there. It had been moved near the main door, with an umbrella hanging from one of the hooks.
A silent reminder. To take it with her whenever it rained. And then she noticed the list stuck to the fridge small, precise handwriting. Things ticked off neatly.
Milk. Bread. Eggs. Cereal. Everything was stocked, and the fridge was full. He had done grocery shopping before leaving.
She opened the refrigerator door, staring at the rows of neatly arranged labeled containers. Everything was organized, every corner carrying the trace of his quiet, thoughtful presence. Even when he wasn't here, he had made sure she would be okay. Alina leaned against the counter, her eyes stinging softly.
She exhaled slowly, her lips curving into the faintest smile. And in that silent kitchen filled with the scent of his care, she realized that he hadn't just left her a home.
He had left pieces of himself everywhere, woven into every little thing that made her life easier.
As she sat there lost in thought, a sudden knock broke her trance.
Knock. Knock.
"Who? Now?" she mumbled, slightly irritated, dragging herself to the door.
When she opened it, a delivery guy stood there holding two large brown paper bags.
"Miss Alina Carter?" he asked, glancing at the label.
"Yes… That's me," she said, confused.
"Here's your order, ma'am."
"My order?" Alina frowned. "But I didn't order anything."
The man simply smiled, handed her the bags, and said, "Already paid for," before leaving down the hallway.
Alina stared at the bags in her hands, curiosity bubbling up inside her. She placed them on the counter and slowly opened them. The first thing she saw made her eyes widen: fresh, glistening strawberries packed neatly in a small wooden box. Her favorite.
Then came the mangoes, golden and soft, just the way she liked them. Below them were cherries, dark red and sweet-smelling, and a small box of blueberries tucked beside them.
Then, carefully wrapped in paper, she found green apples, the crunchy kind she always picked at the market.
She stared at them all, her lips curving unconsciously. Her heart fluttered not just with surprise, but with something tender, something that felt like being seen.
"How would someone know all this…" she whispered, tracing her fingers over the mango skin. "Maya? No, she doesn't even know I like green apples… Or—" Her thoughts stopped mid-sentence.
"It must be him," she murmured. Her pulse skipped. But then she shook her head, quickly brushing the thought away. Why does it even matter? She told herself, though her heart betrayed the calm in her tone.
As she turned to put the fruits away, her gaze fell on the living room, and something felt… off. The chair. The one that always stood in her way. The one she bumped into every single morning, no matter how many times she tried to avoid it. It wasn't there.
She blinked. Looked again. The chair had been moved just slightly, perfectly positioned so it no longer blocked her path.
She stood there in silence, a slow smile forming on her lips. Someone had moved it deliberately. So she wouldn't bump into it again.
"Weird…" she whispered to herself, trying to suppress the warmth rising in her chest.
But even as she turned away, she couldn't hide the tiny, foolish smile that lingered on her face.
Alina was walking back home, her tote bag slung loosely over her shoulder, when her phone buzzed. The name flashing on the screen made her frown slightly; it was the lady from Arden Entertainment.
"Hello?"
"Miss Carter?" came the familiar voice, calm yet hurried. "Could you please come to Arden Entertainment right now?"
Alina blinked. "Uh… right now? Did something happen?"
"Nothing serious," the lady replied quickly, her voice holding that polite professionalism that didn't leave much room for questions. "I just need to discuss something important with you. It won't take long."
Before Alina could say anything more, the call ended.
She sighed, adjusting her bag. Why does everyone keep things mysterious here? She muttered under her breath before heading toward the bus stop.