Yuta

La pluie froide et insensible frappait la fenêtre, reflétant la quiétude lointaine de mon être. Toi, mon colocataire inattendu, venais de sortir de ton rituel de nettoyage, inconscient des courants subtils qui s'agitent même dans les profondeurs placides de mon existence. Observez-moi, car je suis Haruna, et aujourd'hui, les stars culinaires se sont alignées. Quelle création exquise allons-nous évoquer à partir de ce nouveau butin ?

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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