At Maya's apartment, the soft light of the living room wrapped around them like a blanket. Maya guided Alina to the sofa.
"Sit here," she said gently. "I'll bring you some juice."
Alina nodded weakly. But when Maya turned to go, Alina spoke again. Her voice was quiet but filled with a fragile determination. "I want to go home."
Maya stopped in her tracks, her back stiffening slightly. She turned around slowly.
"Alina, please," she said softly. "Not now. I can't leave you alone."
"But I don't want to stay here," Alina said, her voice trembling. "I feel… empty."
Maya walked back to her, kneeling in front of her. "I know.." she said. "You do. But you're not alone anymore, okay? You have me."
Alina shook her head slowly, her tears finally falling. "You don't understand, Maya… everyone's gone. My mother… she left me too. What's the point of staying anywhere now?"
Maya's heart shattered hearing those words. She reached out and pulled Alina into her arms again. "Hey," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You still have people who care. You still have me. And I'm not going anywhere."
Alina's sobs came harder, muffled against Maya's shoulder. The room fell into silence except for the sound of quiet crying, the kind of silence that carries both pain and comfort at once.
Maya stroked her hair softly. "You can't go now, but I promise," she said. "I'll drop you off at your house once you are well."
Alina closed her eyes, her tears soaking into Maya's shirt. And for the first time in days, she let herself rest not in her own house, but in a home made of friendship, comfort, and warmth.
Outside, the wind brushed against the window, carrying the faintest whisper as if someone far away was calling her name. Maybe it was the memory of Kai. Or maybe it was his voice reaching her quietly from wherever he was.
Maya came back to the living room, holding two glasses of juice. Her voice was soft, a small smile tugging her lips. "Alina, here you go…"
But her words trailed off. The couch was empty. The blanket still lay there, untouched.
The faint dent on the cushion was the only sign that Alina had been sitting there moments ago.
Maya blinked, confused. "Alina?" she called, her voice echoing through the quiet apartment. No reply.
She placed the glasses down, frowning, and walked toward the hallway. Maybe Alina went to the washroom, she thought. She stopped before the closed door and knocked lightly.
"Alina? You in there?"
No sound. She knocked again, louder this time. "Alina?"
Still silence. A strange unease began to build in her chest. She pushed the door open, empty. The washroom was cold, quiet, untouched. Her pulse began to quicken.
She rushed from one room to another, her heart hammering louder with every step. "Alina!" she called again, her voice trembling now. No one answered. The balcony is empty. Bedroom empty. Kitchen silent. Her stomach dropped.
She spun around the apartment, her breath uneven, eyes darting across every corner as if Alina would suddenly appear and laugh, saying it was a prank. But she wasn't there. Maya's mind raced. Where could she go? And then it hit her, so sudden, so sharp that her heart skipped a beat. Her house. Of course.
The cab slowed to a stop before the familiar house; it was definitely her. Alina's heart thudded as she stepped out, her fingers trembling while unlocking the door she hadn't touched in what felt like forever.
Each step creaked under her weight, a soft reminder of how familiar this place once was. When she reached the door, her hand hovered over the handle for a moment, fear and longing tangled within her. Then she pushed it open. The door groaned softly, and the scent of home wrapped around her instantly.
It hit her like a wave. The faint smell of coffee. The woody fragrance of the furniture. And that warmth, that subtle, invisible warmth that once came from laughter, conversations, and the quiet hum of someone moving around the kitchen.
Her eyes fell first on the small wooden shoe rack by the door. Her shoes were there exactly where they used to be. A pair neatly placed, another tossed carelessly to the side. She remembered how he would always put them back properly.
She stepped inside slowly, her fingers brushing against the wall, her wall, and the faint marks of their laughter echoed in her mind.
Her gaze fell next on the living room. The same old couch stood there, with a thin blanket folded neatly over its backrest. The very same blanket he used to drape over her whenever she fell asleep reading her novel. She could almost feel that warmth again, not just of the blanket, but of him.
Her throat tightened. She turned toward the dining area. The table looked just as it did two chairs slightly out of place. The silence was heavy, but she could almost see him placing the chairs in a way that didn't hurt Alina,
The smell of that kitchen used to make her feel good. There had always been a person who used to cook for her, no matter what. She walked in, her steps slow, hesitant, afraid of what she might remember next.
Everything there was… just as she'd left it. The utensils gleamed faintly under the pale light, the spice jars neatly lined up, and there, on the counter, was her old recipe book, untouched, yet alive with memories. She reached for it slowly, running her fingers across its cover.
It still smelled faintly of cardamom and cinnamon. When she opened it, her tears fell freely. Between the pages, there were sticky notes, small, square pieces of paper with his handwriting on them.
"Add more salt, chef," one read with a little smiley face. "Don't forget to taste before serving," said another. She ran her thumb over the faded ink, tears filling her eyes as she remembered the evenings she spent cooking, or to be precise, experimenting with new recipes from seeing the recipe book.
Then her gaze drifted to the refrigerator. She opened it and froze. It wasn't empty. It was filled. Her favorite fruits were stacked neatly in a basket. The top shelf held her favorite ice cream flavor. Even the sauces and spreads she liked were all there.
Someone knew exactly what she liked. Someone cared enough to keep this place alive to keep her alive through it. Alina closed the fridge and leaned against it, her heart racing, her mind swirling.
The "home" she had been crying for, the one she whispered for in her delirium, she thought she meant the house. The comfort. The familiarity. But standing here now, surrounded by the quiet proof of care she couldn't explain, she realized what she wanted wasn't just a house.
It was the feeling of being cared for. The warmth. The unseen hand that made sure she never felt alone, even when she thought she was. But now… that warmth was gone.
She had everything: the food, the smell of comfort, the neatness that made her feel seen, yet something was missing. Something invisible but undeniable.
She pressed her hand to her chest, whispering, "It's all here… but why does it still feel so empty?"
Her chest tightened painfully. Every corner, every soundless space carried his presence in the orderliness of things, in the little details only he cared about. But as her eyes wandered around the house, the realization hit her like a whisper in the silence.
Everything was here… The care, the warmth, the memories, the love that filled this house are all still here.
But the one thing missing… was him. No footsteps in the kitchen. No soft humming while cooking. Just silence. And it was that silence that broke her.
She turned toward the living room again. The air was still. Only the faint ticking of the clock echoed through the quiet room. Something was off. Everything looked the same, yet the heartbeat of the place was missing the unspoken care that made it home. The presence that wasn't seen but always felt. Her chest tightened painfully as she looked around.
"What is it that's missing?" she whispered.
And deep down, though she couldn't name it, her heart already knew. She was missing him. The one who had quietly built this house with her, not with bricks or words, but with presence. The one who stayed invisible, yet made her life feel whole. The one who made sure her world never fell apart.
Every corner carried his trace, the way he organized things, the way he cared without saying a word, the warmth he left behind. But he wasn't there. That absence screamed louder than words.
She sank to the floor, clutching the edge of the couch, her tears falling freely now because this was home, yes… but a home without him felt like just walls and echoes of what once was.
She whispered his name softly once, twice, as if saying it could fill the emptiness.
But all she heard in return was her own breath, trembling with longing. And in that moment, Alina realized it wasn't just her house she missed. It was him. The one who made it feel like home.