None of them were posed.
None of them were with me.
I didn’t know why that last part stung.
She set her keys in a small ceramic dish by the door, kicked off her heels without a word, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. “I can make pasta,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s either that or cereal.”
“Pasta sounds like a dream.”
I leaned against the doorway, watching her move—efficient, relaxed, like she wasn’t used to sharing this space with anyone. There was a rhythm to it. Her world, her rules. And still, she didn’t ask me to leave.
It hit me then.
I felt comfortable here.
Too comfortable.
Like I’d done this before. Like I belonged in this little apartment, in this sliver of her life she didn’t show the rest of the world. That scared the hell out of me.
I wasn’t built for domestic. For cozy. For photos on fridges and mugs with hairline fractures.
But I wanted to know the story behind every picture. I wanted to be someone she left post-its for.
And that…?
That was the problem.
Because once I let myself want that, I wouldn’t be able to want anything else.
She moved through the kitchen like she’d done it a hundred times—with muscle memory, not grace. Hair twisted up with a pen, socks sliding across the tile. She tossed a pot on the burner, grabbed a box of pasta with one hand, and opened the fridge with the other. No hesitation, no filter.
And I couldn’t stop watching her.
Garlic hit the pan first—already minced in a jar, but the smell was rich. Then olive oil, butter, salt. She stirred like she didn’t need to measure anything, like her hands knew what enough felt like. The kind of cooking that came from instinct, not recipes.
I sat at the small kitchen table, fingers laced, elbows on wood worn down at the edges. A single chair across from me. No guests. No roommates. Just her.
“Hope you’re not expecting anything fancy,” she said, glancing back at me. “This is budget comfort food.”
“It’s perfect.”
She rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile ghosted her lips as she stirred. The pasta water started to boil. She turned down the heat like it was second nature.
The silence was companionable. But it also felt like something was sitting between us, unsaid.
So I filled it.
“I grew up in Flint.”
She turned slightly, still stirring.
“Parents were always working—night shifts, day shifts, doubles. They kept the lights on. That was enough. I had pasta all the time."
I didn’t know why I was telling her this. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way she hadn’t asked me anything and still felt like she was listening.
“My grandma raised me more than anyone else. She’d pick me up after school, take me to the park. Gave me my first pair of cleats for my birthday—bought ‘em used from a garage sale and cleaned ‘em like they were gold.” I paused, exhaling through my nose. “She used to say I’d either set the world on fire or destroy it trying.”
That got a smile out of her—soft, real.
