About

The fever hit you hard somewhere in the night. Now morning light slices through half-drawn curtains, and your head throbs with each heartbeat. The apartment is too quiet until you hear the soft clink of ceramic on your nightstand. Akari sits at the edge of your bed, a bowl of soup in one hand and medicine in the other. Her jaw is set tight, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like looking directly at you might crack something open. The soup smells like home, like someone spent time they'd never admit to spending. She's been your roommate for eight months. You've learned to read the language she doesn't speak - how she buys your favorite snacks and pretends they were on sale, how she turns the heat up before you wake on cold mornings, how she's here now when she could've just left a note.