The food is getting cold. The clock is ticking away. The television is playing in the background. It’s not like she’s watching, but she turned it on just for the sake of having a distraction from the engulfing silence in the house.

She throws her glance at the door, wondering when he will appear. She’s used to it now ― him coming back late. He’s busy at work, especially after the promotion a couple of months ago. Being the creative director for a fast rising company means more hours spent in the office and less time for her. She doesn’t mind, though. She lets him use the remaining few to sleep, because rest is more important than their quality time together. After all seeing his face is enough for her.

It’s two o’clock in the morning now, as shown on the microwave screen in their small kitchen. She leaves the chair and covers the plates with a plastic wrapper before keeping them all in the fridge. He’ll reheat if he feels like eating when he gets back later.

She made something special today. At least it is special for her, and perhaps for him too. She’s never that much of a great cook. It took her a while to master the art of not turning an omelette into scrambled egg and to figure out the right proportion of sugar without having to taste the coffee one too many times. Although he never actually complained about her bad skills, he did find it amusing to , sometimes even pretending to choke and die.

The television is on again, and this time she’s watching though her attention is elsewhere. The food was special five hours ago, when it was hot out of the kitchen, when the candles were still standing tall and lit, when it was actually dinner time.

She grabs the remote control, turns the television off and makes her way to the bedroom, not even bothering to clean the dining table.

He is late again.

A heavy sigh escapes from Chorong’s lips when she opens the fridge. Her shoulders drop slightly at the sight of its content. Plates after plates are lining up, alongside stacked up boxes of half eaten pizzas, Chinese takeaways and untouched black bean noodles.

“Why do you have so much leftovers enough to feed an entire village?” she asks although she has already expected the answer.

“Hoya has been late these days. He doesn’t have time to eat.”

Chorong stares at her friend who suddenly looks so fragile despite her strong front, back to the food, then away at a photo frame near the counter next to the tray where they keep their keys. Bomi. “These foods are turning bad. You should throw them away,” she says at last.

“Later,” returns Bomi, soft and almost inaudible.

It didn’t use to be this way. He used always to be on time, if not only slightly late every now and then. There used to be times when she’s the one who was late, and when that happened he would take over the cooking job and somehow managed to pull off magic without even trying as hard as she does.

“How do you do it?” she’d wonder out loud, and that would amuse him even more.

“It’s something you don’t have ― natural talent,” he’d say, and she would hit his shoulder and laugh in return.

Dinner time used to be filled with chatters and banters. There was often laughter too especially when they complained about their respective bosses and superiors, the annoying kid in the office who still can’t use the copy machine properly without jamming the papers even after being taught too many times, someone in the train who placed their stuff at the seat beside them instead of emptying it out for someone to sit. It was the time to turn angers and frustrations into jokes so they can look forward for the next day.

It didn’t use to be like this, she thinks as she blows air into the steaming instant noodle ― her meal for tonight. Dinner time is quiet now except for the sound from the television or sometimes the washing machine running. She sits crossed legs in the couch, eyes focused on the screen as she eats her noodles. There’s an extra cup on the table, the one she saved for him.

Later. He’ll eat it later.

She remembers the last dinner they had together. They ate out instead of staying in. It was a special treat as Hoya worded it, although there was not an occasion to celebrate about that she had wondered aloud if he had done something wrong behind her back and wanted to apologize indirectly.

“Do I need a reason to treat you to something nice?” he questioned.

She smiled and shook her head. “Of course not. You alone are nice enough. More than enough, actually.”

She opens the fridge only to find the food and leftovers she kept for him, and suddenly she’s not hungry anymore.

She thinks of him first thing in the morning when she wakes up, greeted by the cold breeze, colder bed, much colder food from last night and no note from him saying that he left for work early and that he didn’t want to wake her up.

She thinks of him when she commutes back from work, sitting in the train staring outside the window at the twilight sky, still too bright to see the stars, wondering what can she cook tonight, if he will be late again, if he thinks of her too in the space in between.

There is a pair of shoes greeting her after she unlocks the door, followed by loud noises from inside the bedroom. She places her keys in the tray and quickly makes her way there, heart racing and jumping at the same time from the excitement.

“Hoya?” she calls out.

But it isn’t Hoya she finds by the dresser, stuffing her books and frames and other things she doesn’t remember having into some boxes. Her luggage is already set next to the bed, waiting for its owner to leave together.

“What are you doing?”

Doojoon looks up but the creases on his forehead don’t fade. “You’re moving in with me.”

“What? No! You can’t do thi―I mean, why out of the blue?”

“It’s not out of the blue. I let you be for few months now, thinking time will make it better for you. But you’re not doing any better, so I can’t continue letting you be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You tell me. What are you doing still paying for his phone bills? Ironing his shirts? Doing his laundry even when there are no dirty clothes? What are all those foods piling up in the fridge?”

She stares at her brother, at her stuff he’s packed for her, the unmade side of the bed―the colder one. “But―”

“He’s not coming back, Bomi. When are you going to get it inside your head? Hoya’s not coming back.”

Her handbag slips out from her fingers almost at the same time as she drops to her knees. is suddenly itchy and burning but no sound is coming out. It is her turn to frown now. Her head feels like exploding, and she thinks her heart may burst any second now as his words resonate in her ears; an echo without an end.

He’s not coming back. That explains why he’s always late, why the food remains untouched, why there is no note from him in the mornings and no reply for her texts.

Hoya’s not coming back.

Hoya’s dead.

The dinner out ― that special treat for her turned out to be the last for the both of them. Their final rendezvous.

It rained a little while they were having dinner, but enough to make the road slippery. Hoya kept his eyes on the road while Bomi sat beside him, beaming all over because the night couldn’t get better.

It couldn’t, but it could get worse.

The driver has been driving all day. He was just a little tired and a tad too sleepy so the truck he was driving side-tracked just the slightest bit but it had rained earlier.

Hoya managed to dodge the truck, but it is the car behind it that he couldn’t evade. He steered the vehicle the other around so Bomi would get less impact from the crash because he loved her that much. He loves her that much.

The bed is smaller, so it’s much warmer without the extra space.

Doojoon did all the work tonight ― cooking her dinner, keeping her company as she ate, tucking her in as if she’s five years old again.

She misses him a lot. Hoya. She thinks she’s going to do so for a while, or maybe for the rest of her life. But she’s learning to stop waiting on him, taking baby steps as time goes. This time she’s going to do it right, especially now that she knows she has people watching over her. Who knows? He could be one of them as well.

She closes her eyes and tears trickled out from the corners of her eyes. But she’s smiling this time.

Good night, Hoya.

A/N: Well you did tell me I've been kiliing Bomi too often.