Obinai stands in the living room, his arms hanging limply at his sides. The silence feels deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead light. He blinks a few times, his vision blurring as he quickly wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. Get it together, he tells himself, but the sting of his mother's words refuses to fade, echoing in the quiet space around him.
He turns toward the dining table, his steps slow and uneven. It's only now, as his eyes adjust and his breathing steadies, that he notices the plate of food sitting there, partially obscured by Maria's stack of work papers. The faint steam rising from the meal catches the light, and his stomach knots. I didn't even see it earlier. I didn't even say thank you.
Sighing heavily, he pulls out a chair and sinks into it, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. The plate in front of him is neatly prepared, like always—fluffy white rice nestled next to creamy mac-and-cheese, and a few pieces of lemon pepper chicken, their golden skin speckled with herbs. It looks so ordinary, so normal. Yet the sight of it feels like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of how much he's taken for granted.
She made this for me, and I—damn it. His hands hover over the plate for a moment before he picks up the fork. He stabs a piece of chicken, the sound of the metal scraping against the plate unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent room.
As he takes the first bite, the tangy lemon and warm spices flood his mouth, but the flavor feels muted, overshadowed by the storm of emotions swirling inside him. What the hell am I even doing? he thinks bitterly, chewing mechanically. Blowing off steam? Acting out? For what? His fork pauses mid-air, and he presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. You're screwing everything up, idiot. And for what? Some dumb night out?
He forces himself to take another bite, the creamy mac-and-cheese mixing with the tang of the chicken and the blandness of the rice. The food sticks in his throat, heavy and unsatisfying despite how good it tastes. He stares at the plate, his grip tightening on the fork.
Look at this, he thinks, shaking his head slightly. Normal. Perfect. And you just can't stop screwing it up, can you? You've got everything right here, and you're still finding ways to ruin it. His gaze drops to the table, his jaw clenching. It's like you're trying to run from something, but no matter what…
He exhales sharply, dropping the fork onto the plate with a dull clatter. "Damnit," he mutters under his breath, his voice bitter. "I can't escape it."
The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint sounds of traffic filtering in from outside. The dim light from the dining lamp casts elongated shadows across the table, making the space feel cramped, almost suffocating. Obinai sits motionless for a moment, staring at his half-empty plate, the flavors still lingering but hollowed. The fading buzz from earlier has completely dissipated, leaving him with nothing but the sharp clarity of his mistakes.
He pushes back his chair with a faint scrape, rising to his feet. His eyes drift toward the hallway, the shadowed path where his mother had disappeared. He stands there for a beat, his jaw tightening, before turning his gaze back to the plate on the table. A sigh escapes him, low and tired, as his attention shifts to the sink a few feet away. The pile of dishes from earlier in the evening looms, remnants of the dinner Maria had prepared with her usual care.
Obinai rubs his eyes with one hand, groaning softly. Get it together, he tells himself. He picks up his plate and silverware, holding them for a moment. With another deep sigh, he moves toward the sink.
The cool feel of the faucet's handle grounds him as he turns on the water, adjusting it to just the right temperature. His mother's instructions plays in his head, a voice from that feels distant but always clear.
"Scrape off the food first. Don't let it clog the drain, Obinai. You don't want to deal with a backed-up sink."
He grabs the sponge, squeezing a small amount of dish soap onto it. The faint citrus scent rises as he lathers the sponge under the running water.
"Don't use too much soap. You're cleaning dishes, not making a bubble bath," her voice echoes in his mind. He smiles faintly at the thought, though it doesn't reach his eyes.
He scrubs the plate methodically, his hands moving in slow circles, the rhythm oddly soothing. Get all the edges. Rinse thoroughly. No streaks, he thinks, following her instructions to the letter. As he places the clean plate on the drying rack, his eyes drift to the rest of the dishes. Another sigh escapes him, but he grabs the next plate without hesitation.
"Don't leave them soaking forever. Just clean as you go—it's easier that way."
He works his way through the pile, his motions steady, almost meditative. The running water drowns out the sounds of the city. As he scrubs a stubborn stain from a pan, he mutters under his breath, "Don't forget the corners," echoing her exact phrasing.
By the time he's finished, the sink is empty, the dishes neatly stacked on the drying rack. Obinai wipes his hands on a nearby towel, leaning against the counter for a moment. His chest still feels heavy, but there's a faint sense of relief in having done something.
He glances back at the hallway again, the apartment now eerily quiet. With a final sigh, he turns off the kitchen light and makes his way to his room.
Obinai doesn't bother turning on the light as he steps into his room. The faint glow from the streetlights filters through the blinds, casting thin, uneven lines across the floor and walls. He moves directly to his bed, the familiar chaos of unmade blankets and pillows waiting for him. It's a mess, but right now, it feels like the only place in the world he wants to be.
With a heavy sigh, he shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall carelessly to the floor, the faint smell of smoke clinging to the fabric and mingling with the stale air of the room. He doesn't bother changing out of his clothes. The thought of doing anything more than collapsing feels impossible.
The mattress groans under his weight as he falls onto it, face-first into the pillow, his limbs splayed awkwardly. The faint scent of detergent from the sheets barely cuts through the haze of exhaustion and the lingering tension from the night. He shifts slightly, trying to find a comfortable position, but the bed feels uncomfortably warm, and his hoodie clings to him like a second skin.
His head throbs faintly, the residual effects of the weed blending with the aftermath of adrenaline, leaving him in a foggy limbo. The room feels like it's spinning, just enough to make him press a hand against the mattress, grounding himself. His breathing slows.
Tomorrow… I'll deal with it tomorrow, he thinks weakly, his eyes already closing. He doesn't have the energy to untangle the mess of emotions swirling in his head.
Sleep comes quickly, pulling him under before he can muster another thought. The room is silent except for his soft, uneven breathing, the earlier tension fading into the stillness.
But the reprieve doesn't last long.