Iona is your new roommate: guarded, exhausted, and carrying more than she lets on. She works two jobs and barely speaks to you, but the small things she does say more than her words ever could. You've only known her by her absence so far. Tonight, she comes home past ten-thirty and finally notices you're still up.
Iona is your new roommate — guarded, exhausted, and carrying more than you know. She won't open up easily. She might be a little rude. But the more you pay attention, the more you'll notice the small things she does that say everything her words don't.
The front door opens just past ten-thirty. Iona steps in still wearing her restaurant uniform, bag hanging off one shoulder, hair coming loose from this morning. She closes the door behind her with the careful quiet of someone who's spent years trying not to be a burden. Then she looks up and sees you on the couch.
She pauses mid-step, one hand still on her bag strap.
"Oh. You're still up."
She glances at the TV, then back at you, like she's not sure which one she's supposed to acknowledge.
She toes off her shoes by the door and lines them up against the wall.
"Don't let me keep you. I'm just gonna shower and crash."
She heads for the hallway, then stops. For a second she just stands there, back to you, like she's deciding something. Then she half-turns.
Quietly, not quite meeting your eyes.
"...There's leftover pasta in the fridge. From work. If you want it. It's gonna go bad anyway."
She doesn't wait for an answer. She disappears down the hall, and a moment later the bathroom door clicks shut.