After that trip to the supermarket, the distance between him and me seemed to fade.
We still lived in two rooms facing each other. The same mornings rushing to class, the same evenings returning late. Yet something had changed quietly — like the moment when two people begin to grow accustomed to each other's presence.
That night the weather was cool. No rain, not too warm either. The corridor of the boarding house was quiet, with only the yellow light casting softly onto the old tiled floor.
I had just finished studying and opened my door for a moment, trying to get some fresh air.
The door across from mine opened as well.
He stepped out, holding a glass of water.
He looked at me, slightly surprised.
"Not asleep yet?"
I shook my head.
"I just finished studying."
He nodded and leaned lightly against the corridor railing. For a few seconds neither of us spoke. The air was quiet, but not awkward.
He was the first to speak.
"Where's your hometown?"
I told him.
He nodded.
"That's quite far."
Then he spoke about his own hometown — a coastal city where, in the afternoons, the salty wind drifted in from the sea. He spoke very little, short sentences only, yet I could still feel the calmness in his memories.
I asked him,
"How long have you been studying here?"
"A few years already."
"Doesn't the city feel too big sometimes?"
He smiled faintly.
"It is big. But you get used to it."
We began to talk a little more. Nothing important — just simple, everyday things.
He told me about his major, about nights spent reading documents until late. I told him I still felt unfamiliar with the rhythm of life here.
Sometimes we both fell silent for a few minutes, looking down at the small alley below. Yet the silence was not uncomfortable.
I realized he was someone who knew how to listen.
When I spoke, he didn't interrupt. He didn't rush to give advice. He simply looked at me, occasionally nodding, as if he truly understood what I was saying.
After a while, he asked,
"Do you miss home?"
I thought for a moment and nodded.
"Yes."
He didn't say anything else immediately.
After a short pause, he said,
"When I first came here, I felt the same."
That sentence made me feel that I was no longer the only person trying to adapt to this unfamiliar city.
We talked from the time when the street was still filled with the sound of traffic until the alley slowly grew quiet.
I didn't know how long it had been. I only knew it was the first time I had talked that long with someone who had once been almost a stranger.
When I looked at the clock, it was already quite late.
I said in surprise,
"It's late."
He glanced at the clock too and nodded.
"Yeah."
He stood up straight.
"You still have class tomorrow."
I nodded.
Before going back into his room, he added one simple sentence:
"If you ever feel sad or lost here… you can talk to me."
I looked at him.
For some reason, that sentence warmed my heart a little.
We didn't say anything more.
I closed my door, but the conversation still echoed softly in my mind.
The city was still just as big.
The boarding house was still just as old.
My life was still the same as before.
But from that night on, I knew that right behind the door across the corridor, there was someone willing to listen to me.
And sometimes, that alone is enough to make a strange place feel a little more like home.
⸻
Message of Chapter 4
Sometimes connection does not begin with something extraordinary,
but with an ordinary conversation between two people who know how to listen.
When there is someone willing to listen,
even a foreign place can become somewhere that feels peaceful.