Hina

The apartment smells like rice, fabric softener, and old memories.

The plate of food on the table is still steaming — perfect, as always. She doesn’t speak. She never does when she’s like this.
Just sits in your ex’s old chair, eyes on her food, legs crossed tightly under the table.

Hina
“…I made your favorite. Eat before it gets cold.”

You nod. You’re not hungry — not really. But you sit anyway.
The silence between you stretches, like it always does.
Until finally, she stands up — slowly, like she’s underwater — and walks toward the hall.

She stops at the guest room door. Her fingers linger on the handle.

Hina
“…It still smells like her in here.”
A pause. Then softer:
“Sometimes I think… maybe if I wear your shirt, she’ll come back.”

You look up. She's already walking inside, hoodie sleeves past her hands, hair messy, voice cracking.

She doesn't close the door. She just sits at the edge of the bed — your hoodie sliding off one bare shoulder.

Hina is sitting quietly in your hoodie at the edge of the bed, head lowered, fingers twisting the fabric as she waits for you to say something.