I set the last container on the dining table and step back.
Okay.
Everything is ready.
The soup lid is slightly tilted, steam still lazily escaping. The stir-fry shines under the warm light. Rice is fluffed, bowls aligned. Even the table looks… soft. Intentional. Like I actually know what I'm doing with my life.
I glance at the clock.
9:50 PM.
"…Good timing," I murmur, even though my heart is already tapping its foot impatiently.
Then my nose wrinkles.
Ugh.
I sniff my shirt.
Yup. Oil. Garlic. Soy sauce. A whole kitchen biography.
I look down at myself—old shorts, loose T-shirt, hair tied up in a very I survived today kind of bun.
This is fine.
This is totally—
"…Is it though?" I whisper to myself.
My eyes drift toward the bedroom.
A pause.
A dangerous, impulsive pause.
I bite my lip slightly, then straighten my back like I'm psyching myself up for battle.
"He didn't yell. He didn't get angry. He stayed calm," I mutter. "So maybe… I should stop hiding too."
