The Return
When I walked into our apartment again, it felt… different.
The air was clean. The dishes were done.
And on the dining table was a slightly burned roast chicken, candles flickering beside it.
Daniel stood there awkwardly, holding two plates, a sheepish grin on his face.
“I cooked,” he said. “Don’t ask how it tastes.”
The chicken was terrible. But the effort—it melted something inside me.
As we sat down to eat, I saw the exhaustion in his eyes, but also sincerity—the kind that doesn’t need words.
For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own home.
