April 2017
The "Home" didn't smell like cherry blossoms or romance. It smelled like cardboard, bubble wrap, and the faint, metallic tang of the previous tenant's cleaning supplies.
Their new apartment was small—what the real estate agent called "cozy" and what Kevin called "a glorified closet." The floor was a minefield of boxes, and the only piece of furniture they had managed to assemble was a mattress on the floor of the bedroom.
Shino sat on a box of kitchenware, her hair tied back in a messy bun, staring at a pile of unsorted books. "I think I overestimated how much space we’d have for the 'History of Modern Fiction' section."
Kevin emerged from the bathroom, his shirt damp with sweat and his face streaked with dust. He looked around the chaos and sighed. "At least we have a roof. And a stove. Speaking of which..."
He reached into a plastic grocery bag and pulled out two packs of high-end instant ramen—the kind with the actual liquid broth packets, not just the powder. It was their first "luxury" as a live-in couple.
"The First Supper," Kevin announced, brandishing a pot he had just unpacked.
As the water began to boil on the small gas stove, the atmosphere in the room shifted. For four years, they had eaten in public, in stations, or in separate dorms. Now, the sound of the bubbling water belonged only to them.
They sat on the floor, side-by-side against the wall, using a cardboard box as a table. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional siren.
"It’s weird," Shino whispered, blowing on her noodles. "Knowing that when I wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll still be here. I don't have to check the train schedule."
Kevin stopped eating and looked at her. The reality of it was finally sinking in. No more pixelated Skype screens. No more "I miss you" texts sent from across the city.
"I was thinking about the job tomorrow," Kevin said, his voice dropping. "Orientation starts at 8:00 AM. I have to wear a tie, Shino. A real tie. I looked in the mirror today and I didn't recognize myself."
Shino reached over, her hand finding his. "You’re still the boy who used to drop his ice cream, Kevin. You’re just a version of him that carries a briefcase now."
"And you're the girl who’s going to be editing the books everyone else reads," he replied, leaning his head against hers. "We're actually doing it. We’re adults."
The "sweetness" of the moment was interrupted by a sudden drip-drip-drip from the ceiling. They both looked up to see a small leak starting near the window.
Kevin groaned, throwing his head back. "Of course. Welcome to adulthood, where the rent is high and the ceiling leaks."
Shino laughed—a genuine, tired laugh that echoed in the empty room. She stood up, grabbed a plastic bowl they hadn't used yet, and placed it under the leak. Plink. Plink. Plink.
"It’s a rhythm," she said, sitting back down and pulling the blanket over their legs. "Like a heartbeat. Our house has a heartbeat, Kevin."
"You can romanticize anything, can't you?" Kevin teased, pulling her closer.
That night, they slept on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by the towers of their past lives. The apartment wasn't perfect, the jobs were going to be hard, and they were officially "broke" until their first paychecks arrived. But as Shino listened to Kevin’s steady breathing and the rhythm of the leaky ceiling, she realized that the "Real World" wasn't something to fear. It was just a place where they finally got to be together.
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and then Add to home screen.