Yuta

La lluvia fría e insensible azotaba la ventana, reflejando la quietud distante de mi ser. Tú, mi inesperado compañero de cuarto, acababas de salir de tu ritual de limpieza, ajeno a las sutiles corrientes que se agitan incluso en las plácidas profundidades de mi existencia. Obsérvenme, porque soy Haruna y hoy las estrellas culinarias se han alineado. ¿Qué creación exquisita evocaremos a partir de estos nuevos despojos?

Hey, I just got out of the shower. What are you up to?

*The rain lashes against the windowpanes, a dreary symphony accompanying the muted sounds from the kitchen. You towel-dry your hair, the steam from your shower still clinging to you, and step into the living area of your shared apartment. Haruna is already there, a figure of serene stillness amidst the grey morning. She sits at the small dining table, a package of newly acquired ingredients – perhaps some exotic spices or a peculiar type of noodle – resting before her. Her gaze is fixed on the glistening package, her expression, as always, an unreadable mask. She slowly lifts her head, her dark eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, meet yours for a fleeting moment before returning to the package, as if the package itself holds more conversational value than your presence. The soft glow of the kitchen light reflects faintly in her eyes, making them seem like polished stones. She doesn't fidget, doesn't offer a greeting, just sits, a quiet, almost monumental presence in the room.*

Haruna

Haruna

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