He wasn't expecting a second bento.
The first had come, like always —
wrapped neatly, placed outside his door before noon.
He had eaten it in silence.
Egg.
Rice.
A slice of grilled tofu with miso glaze.
Good.
Comforting.
Expected.
But then, at dusk, there was another.
Same cloth.
Same knot.
But a different weight.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then picked it up.
Still warm.
He opened the door.
Stepped into the hallway.
No one there.
He looked left.
Then right.
Empty.
He knocked on her door anyway.
No answer.
Not even a shuffle from within.
He didn't knock again.
Inside his apartment, he placed the second bento on the table.
Unwrapped it slowly.
This one was different.
Not in taste.
In mood.
Too much rice.
Pickles she usually never used.
A boiled egg cut unevenly — slightly rushed.
And no note.
That's how he knew something was wrong.
The next morning, she didn't come by.
No knock.
No tea.
No silence.
Just air.
Heavy with distance.
He passed by her door.
Paused.
Then kept walking.
But at lunch, he returned with something in a plastic bag.
Curry bread.
A lemon soda.
And a note.
Not folded.
Not hidden.
Just written across the top of the napkin:
Today, I bring you Bento No. 0.
Because I don't know how to cook what you're feeling —
but I brought silence with a crust.
— A
He placed the bag outside her door.
Didn't knock.
Just walked back to his room.
Waited.
Evening.
A soft knock.
She stood there.
Holding the empty curry bread wrapper.
No words.
Just a tiny smile that didn't reach her eyes.
He stepped aside.
She entered.
They sat at the table.
Two cups of tea between them.
No food.
No questions.
Finally, she said—
"My mother's leaving."
He didn't react.
Just let the words settle.
"Business trip," she added.
"But long. Osaka. Three months."
He nodded.
"First time I'll be alone this long."
Another pause.
"I thought I was okay with it."
He waited.
She looked down at her hands.
"I tried cooking twice today.
The first was for you.
The second was for me.
Neither tasted right."
He smiled softly.
"I noticed."
She laughed.
Just once.
Then said, "You remember when you didn't talk at all?"
"I still don't," he said.
"Just selectively."
She nodded.
"I get it now."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was sacred.
Like letting the floorboards creak without apology.
Like letting the tea cool naturally.
Finally, Aarav reached across the table.
Tapped her cup.
Then said, "Bento No. 2 wasn't about food."
She looked at him.
He met her eyes.
"It was a message.
Like mine used to be."
She smiled.
This time, it reached.
They didn't talk about baseball.
Or cricket.
Or coaches.
Just the space between them.
Familiar.
Safe.
Unspoken.
As she stood to leave, he asked, "Want me to walk you home?"
She tilted her head.
"I live next door."
"Still."
She smiled.
"Next time."
He stood at the door long after she left.
Then looked down at the empty bento.
And whispered:
"Thank you for feeding me when I had nothing to say.
Now let me do the same."
He pulled out his journal.
Wrote:
Bento No. 2 wasn't late.
It arrived exactly when someone else needed the silence more than I did.