The front door.
Everyone turned.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Slow.
Regular.
Unhurried.
Her heart gave a sharp jolt, as if it had recognised that sound before her mind even had.
The handle went down.
The door opened.
He appeared on the threshold.
Dark hoodie.
Relaxed shoulders.
Flat, steady gaze, as if the room contained nothing of particular interest.
She stiffened.
He wasn't supposed to come back.
He stopped for an instant.
Saw the girls.
His expression didn't change.
He said nothing.
Just one second of silence, clean.
Her friends' eyes went wide.
"Wha—"
"Who—"
She stayed still.
He remained there another half second, indifferent, as if the presence of three strangers in the living room carried no real weight.
Then he simply walked in.
Passed them.
Without avoiding them.
Without really looking at them.
As if he were moving through an empty space.
The silence behind him pulled taut.
One of her friends whispered, incredulous:
"…what is he doing here?"
She breathed in, too late to pretend everything was normal.
"We live together."
"WHAT?!"
Both heads snapped toward her at the same moment.
She ran a hand through her hair, already tired, already embarrassed.
"It's just… for the rent."
Pause.
"The agency divided the apartment."
Her friends were still staring at her, eyes wide.
He was already gone.
He crossed the living room with the same neutral pace.
No hesitation.
No curiosity.
As if the scene had nothing to do with him.
He reached the corridor.
Opened his door.
Went in.
click.
Door closed.
The sound seemed sharper than necessary.
Silence.
Her friends stared at the door for three long seconds.
Then, together—
"…YOU LIVE WITH HIM?!"
She covered her face with one hand.
"Don't shout…"
"Since when?!"
"Why didn't you ever tell us?!"
She slid further back into the sofa, as if she could sink into it.
"There was no need."
"NO NEED?!"
"Girls…"
"It's just for the rent."
Pause.
Her friends blinked.
"I mean."
She spoke flatly, almost automatically.
"The agency divided the apartment."
"Two rooms."
"Two contracts."
"That's it."
Silence.
"…that's all?"
"Yes."
"So—"
One friend pointed slowly at the closed door.
"The quiet hot one lives with you?"
She pulled an immediate face.
"Don't call him that."
"IT'S OBJECTIVE."
"It should literally be illegal to be that good-looking and never speak."
"It's unsettling."
"Very."
"He looks like someone who appears in dreams."
"And says nothing."
"EVER."
She exhaled.
"Exactly."
"How do you live with someone like that?"
She thought about it for half a second, genuinely.
"I don't live with him."
Pause.
"He just shares the ceiling."
Silence.
Her friends processed the sentence.
One laughed softly.
"Ok but… isn't it strange?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"He doesn't bother me."
"He doesn't intrude."
"He doesn't ask."
"He doesn't talk."
Pause.
"It's… easy."
Silence.
Her friends looked at each other slowly.
"…that is the most unsettling and reassuring description I have ever heard."
She shrugged.
"It works."
The next morning seemed identical to all the others.
And yet it wasn't.
She noticed as soon as she opened her eyes.
The ceiling above the bed was the same, the pale light filtered through the curtains as always, and the silence of the apartment was the familiar silence of weekday mornings. But beneath the calm surface, something was still moving — the trace of what had happened the evening before, his presence, the memory of his gaze when she had talked too much, when she had blushed, when he had responded with that calm indifference that seemed to erase everything and at the same time fix it more deeply.
She turned onto her side and pressed the pillow closer.
"It's just embarrassment," she murmured to herself.
Just that.
Nothing more.
And yet the thought of leaving the room and running into him in the kitchen made her stomach tighten.
She stayed still for a few minutes, then sat up on the bed and ran her hands over her face. She couldn't stay there. It was ridiculous. They lived together. She couldn't avoid the kitchen forever.
She got up.
The floor was cold under her feet. She put on her slippers, pulled a loose hoodie over her pyjama top and left the room.
The corridor was silent.
His bedroom door was closed.
A relief so immediate it almost made her laugh passed through her chest.
He's not here, she thought. He's already gone out.
She walked into the kitchen, her shoulders slowly dropping. The air smelled of coffee gone cold. On the table there was an empty cup. His.
She stopped.
So he had been there.
Just a little while ago.
A strange warmth rose to her face.
She opened the fridge for no reason, then closed it again. She looked at the moka pot. It had already been washed. Everything was in order — as if the night before had held nothing. No conversation, no embarrassment, no suspended moment.
He had simply… continued.
That normality almost stung.
Of course he doesn't care, she thought, with a small pang she couldn't quite name. For him it means nothing.
And yet — and this was what irritated her — she couldn't quite feel relieved.
She made her tea and stood by the sink sipping it slowly, looking at the window glass that reflected the empty kitchen back at her.
The day had begun.
And with it — Valentine's Day.
The university was something else entirely.
Already from the gate you could sense the different atmosphere: small groups of girls with coloured bags, ribbons, transparent packets of biscuits or chocolates; boys holding roses a little awkwardly by the stem; quiet laughs, whispers, glances that searched and then looked away.
She slowed her pace.
It wasn't an official celebration — no decorations, no music — and yet the air felt denser. More alive. More nervous.
A couple in front of her stopped: the girl held out a small package to the boy, he scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed, then smiled. The friends around them made teasing noises.
She looked away, but the smile stayed on her lips.
It was always like this, every year.
And every year she told herself it was just another day.
This year, though, it wasn't.
"Hey!"
She turned.
Her two friends were almost running to catch up with her.
One was waving a decorated box with a lopsided bow, the other was holding a full bag.
"You're late!" said the first.
"No, you're early," she replied, laughing softly.
"Look what we made!" said the other, opening the bag.
Inside were small irregular chocolates, some slightly squashed, others perfect. The smell of cocoa rose immediately.
"They came out badly," said the first with fake despair.
"They did not," she said. "They're beautiful."
"And yours?" asked the other. "The ones we made yesterday?"
She nodded.
"I fixed them up a bit more."
"I knew it!" Her friend grabbed her arm. "I want to see them."
She pulled a simple little box from her bag, wrapped in plain paper. When she opened it, the chocolates appeared in neat, precise rows. More regular. More careful.
"Oh come on," said the first. "You're illegal."
"I'm not," she said, blushing. "I just had more time."
"Who are you giving them to?" asked the other with a small smile.
She blinked.
"You."
"Just us?"
"Yes."
Her friends exchanged a quick glance — that glance she knew well, made of unspoken assumptions — but they didn't push.
"Then we exchange them now," said the first with theatrical solemnity.
They formed an improvised circle among the passing students and handed over their boxes laughing. For a moment everything was light: chocolate, paper, fingers brushing, comments on the taste, promises to eat them together later.
Around them, other exchanges were happening the same way. Girls handing over packets with performed casualness. Boys receiving them with studied surprise. Couples drifting away right after.
She watched the scene in quiet attention.
It was… sweet.
Embarrassing, yes. But also warm. Human.
A small collective ritual that made visible something that usually stayed hidden.
"You like it, don't you," said one of her friends softly beside her.
"What?"
"This."
She followed her friend's gaze: a girl was holding out a little box to a boy who was visibly struggling, while the friends behind him stifled their laughter.
She smiled.
"It's… nice," she admitted.
"You should have made some for someone too," said the other, lightly.
Her heart gave a small but sharp knock.
"It's… not necessary," she said.
Her friends didn't answer.
But the silence between them wasn't heavy — it was just aware.
The evening arrived faster than expected.
When she got home, he was on the sofa, absorbed in watching an anime on television.
His gaze fixed on the screen, posture relaxed, one leg folded under the other. The blue light of the TV slid across his face without him seeming to react to anything at all.
She came in.
The door closed softly behind her.
He didn't turn around.
She set her bag down near the chair, with a careful, almost silent movement. A thread of embarrassment ran down her shoulders, thin but present, as if the air in the room had become just slightly denser.
She crossed into the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
The cold brushed her fingers.
She took the cake with a slight hesitation — just a moment — and set it on the table. The plate made a soft sound against the wood.
She picked up a knife.
She cut the cake carefully, trying to get a clean slice.
She lifted it slowly and set it on a plate.
She stood there with the plate in her hands for a second too long, then turned toward him.
"Do you want a slice?" she asked.
Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid it could actually be heard in the silence of the room.
He looked away from the screen and looked at her.
A neutral instant, expressionless.
"Yes."
Relief passed through her chest like cool air.
She cut his slice.
She sat down on the chair.
He got up from the sofa naturally and came to sit at the table.
They sat across from each other.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
He picked up the fork and tasted it.
She held her breath without meaning to.
"How is it?" she asked, softly.
"Good," he said simply.
The warmth rose to her ears.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
They ate in silence. Not a heavy silence — more like the silence of two people sharing something without needing to comment on it. Every now and then their hands moved in almost the same rhythm. Every now and then their gazes crossed for half a second and then moved away.
When they finished, he took the plates and got up to wash them without saying anything.
She watched him do it.
The ordinariness of the gesture — as if it were the most natural thing in the world to share a cake she had made on Valentine's Day — made something tighten inside her.
There had been no embarrassment on his part.
No allusion. No question.
And yet… he had accepted.
Two days later, walking back from university with a friend, she saw it.
The cinema poster was hanging next to the bus stop. Rich colours, light, the title in elegant lettering. A night scene: two figures in the rain, close but not yet together.
She slowed down.
Her friend kept talking for a few seconds, then noticed she had stopped.
"What is it?"
She didn't answer immediately.
She was looking at the poster.
"Oh," said her friend, following her gaze. "That film."
"Do you know it?"
"I've heard of it. People say it's good."
She said nothing.
She stayed there a second too long.
Then she started walking again.
But something had stayed behind.
In the days that followed, the thought came back often.
Not obsessively — more like a thin thread that resurfaced between other things: while she was taking notes, while she was drinking coffee, while she was walking home in the evening.
The poster.
The scene.
The atmosphere.
Her friends noticed before she expected them to.
"Something's going on," said one while they were studying.
"What?"
"You're… a little elsewhere."
She smiled.
"No."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then she said, with feigned lightness: "I wanted to go and see a film."
"Which one?"
"That old film they're showing again at the cinema near the stop."
Her friends lit up.
"Let's go!"
"Yes!"
Her heart lifted.
"Really?"
"Of course."
They checked the times on their phones.
Their expressions changed.
"Oh."
"I can't that day."
"I'm working."
The small enthusiasm faded quietly.
"We can go another day," said one.
She shook her head.
"It's only on for a few days."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," said the other.
"No, don't worry," she said immediately. "It doesn't matter."
And she meant it.
Or almost.
That evening she came home with a heavier feeling than usual.
She went in.
He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his laptop.
She set down her bag. She stayed standing.
The thought was pulsing in her head: the film, the poster, the simple desire to see it — not for anyone, not for a romantic reason, but because she genuinely wanted to go.
And yet…
Her friends couldn't make it.
And she didn't want to go alone.
She stood there for a few seconds.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He looked at her.
She breathed in.
"There's a film… I'd like to see."
Silence.
"My friends can't make it that day," she continued, with a honesty that surprised her as it came out. "And… I was wondering if you'd want to come."
The words stayed in the air, light but clear.
There was no flirtation.
No strategy.
Just the simple desire to share something that mattered to her.
He watched her for a moment.
"That's fine."
Her heart leapt.
"Really?"
He nodded.
Silence.
"Then… thank you," she said softly.
She smiled — a small smile, but bright.
"Saturday."
He nodded.
"That's fine."
And in that simplicity — no emphasis, no explicit subtext — there was something that meant more to her than she would have known how to say.
The Valentine's Day chapter closed like this:
with a shared cake, a wanted film, and a yes given for no apparent reason.
But not without attention.
The day before passed almost without her noticing.
The morning slipped by between lessons and notes taken at half-attention, with the light coming in at an angle through the classroom windows and the constant murmur of the other students. Every now and then she found herself staring at the margin of her notebook, pen suspended, while the image of the film's title appeared in her head. Tomorrow.
Just that word.
It didn't unsettle her. Not yet.
It stayed there, like a quiet promise leaning somewhere inside her.
At lunch she ate calmly, half-listening to her friends' chatter. She nodded, smiled at the right moments, but without really following the thread of the conversations. She found herself thinking about what to wear the next day — nothing special, just something that felt right. Adequate. Present.
As if she were about to meet someone she hadn't seen in a long time.
In the afternoon she came home early. She put down her bag, tied her hair back and, almost out of habit, turned on the television. She chose a film at random from the saved ones, without even reading the description properly, just to fill the silence in the room.
She sat on the sofa with her legs folded, letting the images pass.
After a while she stopped following the story and started watching it differently, more attentively. The framing stayed on faces for exactly the right amount of time, the light fell softly on edges, the silences had a precise rhythm. There was nothing forced, nothing that demanded attention — and that was exactly why everything stayed.
She found herself smiling slightly.
It's really well made, she thought.
Filmed with care… felt.
There was a confident hand behind it, someone who knew exactly what to keep and what to take away.
Someone who loved what they were telling.
This director is really good.
She thought it naturally, without emphasis, the way you recognise something right when you come across it.
When the film ended she stayed quiet for a few seconds, the screen now dark, barely reflecting the room. Then she turned everything off and went to open the window. The late-day air came in warm, moving the curtains just slightly. She stayed there, hands on the windowsill.
Tomorrow I'll watch one of your films again.
The thought arrived simply, without sting, without weight.
And it made a calm smile rise in her — almost shy.
The evening passed in small things: dinner, water running in the sink, the familiar sound of the dishes. Before going to sleep she checked the screening time, more out of gesture than need. She already knew it.
She turned off the light.
In the dark, the thought of the cinema the next day settled beside her like a quiet presence. There was no rush, no anxiety. Just a gentle anticipation that filled her chest without tightening it.
She closed her eyes.
The morning arrived with a clear, almost light quality to the air.
She opened her eyes without hurrying, staying a moment to look at the ceiling.
Then the thought came, simple, natural.
Today.
Her lips curved just slightly.
She reached toward the nightstand and picked up the folded flyer. The paper was soft at the corners, worn from years of glances and fingers. She ran her thumb across the director's name, tracing the letters the way she had done so many times as a child.
"Finally…" she murmured softly.
She already knew she would cry. She knew it without fear, the way you know a song will hurt but you want to listen to it anyway.
She sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor. For a moment the image came back to her — herself small, curled up next to her grandmother in front of the television. Not with pain — with a sudden tenderness that made her lower her gaze and smile.
Today I'm really going to see it.
She got up from the bed still holding the flyer.
Today I'll watch your film.
And this time she smiled.