The first thing Aarav noticed about today's bento wasn't the smell.
It was the wrapping.
A different cloth — indigo blue with tiny white sakura petals printed along the edges.
It felt deliberate.
He held it with both hands.
Carefully.
Like it could fall apart if gripped too tightly.
He hadn't opened it yet.
Just stared.
It was the first time Hana hadn't handed it to him directly.
She had left it at his door sometime between sunrise and silence.
He sat cross-legged at the table.
Placed the bento in front of him.
Unwrapped the knot slowly.
Inside: two compartments.
One: rice with a pickled umeboshi in the center — like a red dot on a white flag.
The other: stir-fried bell peppers, a rolled omelet, and…
Paneer.
Not tofu.
Paneer.
He stared at it.
Not the factory kind from some chain store.
Homemade. Slightly charred. Spiced just enough.
His throat tightened.
He picked up the chopsticks, hesitated.
Then took a small bite.
The texture was wrong.
It was soft — almost right — but not garlic-heavy.
Not smoky.
Not like home.
The memory came too fast.
Too sharp.
A Sunday lunch in Delhi.
Him, shirtless, laughing in the kitchen.
His mother yelling at his father to stop tasting everything before it hit the plate.
The smell of burnt cumin.
The sound of spoons clanging.
The taste of real paneer — spicy, cracked at the edges, dripping with ghee.
And him —
so hungry, so whole.
He choked.
Not on the food.
On the ache.
He pushed the bento away gently.
Closed the lid.
His hands trembled.
He hadn't cried since Tokyo.
Not really.
Not until now.
He stood, walked to the balcony.
The wind was sharp, but he didn't care.
He closed his eyes.
Tried to breathe through his nose.
Tried to shake off the weight pressing into his chest.
Tried to forget how much he missed…
everything.
A knock.
Soft.
Expected, somehow.
He opened the door.
Hana stood there, hands behind her back.
Her hair was slightly messy — like she hadn't meant to come, but had.
She looked past him, into the room.
Her eyes found the bento on the table.
Closed.
She didn't step in.
Didn't offer a new box.
Just asked, "Was it too salty?"
He shook his head.
"No," he said.
Then added, voice breaking slightly:
"It was… right."
She nodded.
Didn't smile.
Waited.
He stepped aside.
She entered.
They sat on the floor, not facing each other.
The bento still between them.
Untouched now.
He spoke without planning it.
"My mom used to make it like that."
She didn't answer.
He continued.
"She'd always say I'd never love anyone who cooked better than her. And she was right."
He swallowed.
"Because she was terrible at it."
Hana blinked.
Then laughed — not loudly.
Not rudely.
Just a soft sound that filled the quiet like a blanket.
"She sounds honest," she said.
"She's fire," he replied.
Then paused.
"I haven't called her."
Another silence.
Not heavy.
Not empty.
Just… shared.
"You miss them?" she asked.
He nodded.
Then said, "But I don't want to go back."
"You don't have to."
He looked at her.
She looked at the bento.
"It's okay to carry home without living in it."
Later, after she left, he opened the box again.
This time, he finished it.
Even the paneer.
Even the rice.
And then, for the first time, he washed the empty box himself.
Dried it with a towel.
Wrapped it back.
Placed it outside her door with a note tucked under the knot.
You cook better than her. But don't tell her I said that.
The next morning, there was a reply.
Same paper.
Same handwriting.
It's okay. I already told her.
He laughed.
Out loud.
A small, quiet, unpolished laugh —
but a laugh, nonetheless.