I bought one portion of fries.
We shared them at a table near the window. Noah ate carefully, eyes drooping with fatigue.
People looked.
This time, I ignored them.
Noah dipped a fry into ketchup.
“Real food.”
“Potatoes are available in the hospital.”
“Not like this.”
“If Priya asks, you ate steamed broccoli.”
“She’ll know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t look like someone who eats broccoli.”
“You used to.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Occasionally.”
“Liar.”
The word came easily.
Familiarity without recollection.
I smiled.
Noah watched me.
“When I leave,” he said, “I want the apartment.”
My heart clenched.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
The honesty was immediate.
“But I want to try.”
“You can change your mind.”
“I know.”
“I’ll make the downstairs room ready.”
“No.”
