It was 3 AM.
The sky was still.
Even the moon forgot how to shine.
And my body felt too tired to ache anymore.
My phone lit up,
buzzing gently on the edge of my loneliness.
Your name.
No emojis.
Just:
"Have you eaten?"
I blinked once,
twice,
swallowed the knot in my throat
and said the truth:
"Not since afternoon."
I wasnʼt trying to be dramatic.
I was just tired.
You didnʼt send another message.
I thought that was it.
But then,
half an hour later̶
a knock on my door.
It was you.
Of course it was.
You smelled like the road.
And a little like rain.
And somehow, still̶
like vanilla and warmth and all the things
I couldnʼt hold onto.
You brought noodles.
Two packs.
The good kind.
And you cooked them in my kitchen
like youʼd done it a thousand times.
Quiet.
Careful.
Too casual for something that made my chest burn.
I sat there.
Watched the way your fingers stirred the steam,
how you blew on my spoon before handing it to me.
"Itʼs hot,"
you said.
As if I wasnʼt already burning.
No kiss.
No cuddles.
Not even a goddamn brush of your fingers.
You gave me the bowl.
Smiled.
Like this was normal.
Like 3AM noodles
werenʼt the softest thing anyoneʼs done for me in
years.
And I almost asked̶
"Do you do this for all your friends?"
But I didnʼt.
Because I didnʼt want the answer.
Because I already knew.
Weʼre friends.
Just friends.
Of course.
But friends donʼt drive eight fucking miles
at 3 in the morning
just to cook you something warm
and stay long enough
to be mistaken for home.
Do they?