The Silent Housemate Code

I woke to the smell of coffee — which was strange, because I hadn’t made any.

For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I heard the faint clink of ceramic, the low shuffle of feet against the laminate floor. My body registered it before my mind did: someone was here. And not just here, but here, in my space, moving through my morning.

By the time I stepped into the kitchen, Seo Yoon was already seated at the table, flipping through her phone with one hand while sipping from a white mug with the other. She looked up as I entered, mid-sip.

“Oh,” she said. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really,” I lied. “Just wasn’t expecting caffeine that didn’t come from my own hand.”

She smiled faintly, then gestured to the pot behind her. “There’s enough if you want. I used your beans. I hope that’s okay.”

I poured myself a cup, leaned against the counter. “You’re up early.”

“I usually am.” She glanced down at her phone again. “Old habit.”

There was no music. No idle TV. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the slight creak of my stool as I sat down opposite her. On the table between us sat a plate with two halved hard-boiled eggs and a small dish of salt.

“You can take one if you want,” she said without looking up.

I did. Without thinking. And as I salted it, I realized we hadn’t agreed on anything — not this breakfast, not the boundaries of our morning — and yet it felt seamless.

In return, I pulled the leftover kimchi stew from the fridge, reheated it, and slid the bowl between us.

She blinked. “You sure?”

“I’ll be offended if you don’t.”

She laughed — quietly, but it reached her eyes. “Okay. Just a little.”

It started like that. A rhythm we never talked about but kept falling into. She folded the laundry if she found it in the dryer. I left her side of the sink clean if I used it. She swept the floor on Wednesdays. I took the trash out before it overflowed.

No lists. No rota. Just… understanding.

One afternoon, I came home to find she’d watered the plant I always forgot about — the lonely one on the windowsill that drooped more often than it stood. It looked perkier than usual. I didn’t say anything. But I looked at that plant longer than I probably should have.

Dinner became less of a question and more of an assumption. If she was home, we ate together. Not across from each other — side by side. As if we were trying not to make things too formal.

“Do you always eat alone?” she asked one night, poking at a piece of tofu.

“Mostly,” I said.

She nodded, thoughtful. “Me too.”

We didn’t talk much after that. But I noticed how she didn’t rush to leave the table either.

Our knees nearly brushed under the wood. Neither of us moved.

Later that night, as we went about our own routines again, something lingered. The silence between us no longer felt empty — it held something unspoken. The air was quieter, but not the same.

Some nights, I found myself watching her without realizing — the way she hummed faintly while brushing her hair, or how she always left the teaspoon upright in the sink, perfectly balanced. I started noticing these things the way you notice a painting you walk by every day: not because you’re trying to memorize it, but because you can’t help it anymore.

And maybe that’s when I got nervous.

Familiarity was dangerous. Especially with her. Especially when she wasn’t supposed to be anything more than my best friend’s older sister.

I reminded myself often: this is just two people coexisting. She’s being polite. I’m being accommodating. That’s all.

But each night, it felt harder to believe.