After that long conversation that night, something between him and me seemed to quietly cross a subtle boundary neither of us had noticed before.
We were no longer just two neighbors who happened to live in rooms facing each other.
We became used to stepping out of our rooms and seeing the other there.
Used to exchanging a few more words before one of us returned inside.
Used to knowing what the other was doing without needing to ask.
But the most amusing moment happened one evening while we were sitting in the corridor talking. Suddenly he asked,
"By the way… what's your name again?"
I froze for a moment.
Then I burst out laughing.
"You haven't told me your name either."
We looked at each other for a few seconds and laughed together.
It was strange.
We had known each other for some time, shared a few meals, talked quite often — and only then did we realize we had never actually asked each other's names.
He held out his hand politely.
"I'm Nhật Khang."
I shook his hand.
"I'm Lilly."
He nodded and repeated my name once more, as if wanting to remember it clearly.
"Lilly."
For some reason, hearing him say my name made me feel slightly shy.
Perhaps because from that moment, the relationship between us was no longer vague. It had a name, a clearer recognition.
After that day, we talked more often.
Not about anything grand — just the ordinary things of daily life.
He told me about his studies and his plans for the future. I told him about my days at school and the small details of my life.
I was naturally quiet.
But when I talked with him, I never had to think about what I should say.
Everything felt natural.
There was no need to try to impress him.
No need to pretend to be interesting.
I could simply be myself.
And perhaps he felt the same.
Some afternoons when I came back from school, he would be in the small shared kitchen.
He never cooked anything complicated.
Just simple dishes.
Yet he did everything neatly.
The knife, cutting board, bowls, and chopsticks were always arranged in order. He washed his hands before cooking and wiped the counter clean afterward.
The first time I stood near the kitchen watching him cook, I felt slightly surprised.
He looked at me.
"Have you eaten?"
I shook my head.
He thought for a moment.
"Then eat with me."
I hesitated.
"Would that trouble you?"
He smiled.
"Cooking for two is the same as cooking for one."
I stepped into the kitchen.
It was the first time the two of us stood together in such a small space.
Everything was simple.
Nothing extraordinary.
Yet the feeling was strange.
As if we had been used to sharing small moments like this for a long time.
After that meal, sometimes we cooked together.
Some days he cooked.
Some days I tried making something simple.
He never criticized.
Even when my cooking wasn't very good, he only smiled.
"Next time it'll be better."
He cared for me in a very natural way.
Not the kind of concern that makes someone feel pressured.
But a quiet attentiveness.
For example, when we walked outside together, he would always slow down slightly so I could keep up.
If I stood in front of a shop longer than usual, he would ask,
"Do you like that?"
Once we passed a small accessory store.
My hair was tied in a very simple way.
He looked at it for a moment and said,
"Wait here a minute."
He stepped into the store and chose a soft-colored hair tie.
He handed it to me.
"This suits you."
I felt shy again.
"You keep buying things for me."
He smiled.
"If I think it suits you, I just buy it."
Then he gently helped me tie my hair.
I stood still, slightly flustered.
He was careful.
His movements were slow and gentle.
There was no excessive intimacy.
Just a very natural kind of care.
Gradually, we became closer.
Some nights we talked for hours.
Some afternoons we simply walked around the neighborhood.
Yet no matter how close we became, there was always a very clear sense of respect between us.
He never asked questions that made me uncomfortable.
He never entered my room unnecessarily.
If he wanted to talk, he always knocked first.
I did the same.
We were close.
But we never crossed the boundaries of respect.
Perhaps that was why everything between us always felt easy.
No one had to defend themselves.
No one had to worry about being misunderstood.
Just two people who felt comfortable in each other's presence.
There are relationships where people must try very hard.
Trying to be more interesting.
Trying to gain attention.
Trying not to disappoint the other person.
But with him, I never needed to do that.
I could be silent when I was tired.
I could laugh when I was happy.
I could simply be myself without thinking too much.
And that feeling was rare.
One evening while we were sitting in the corridor, he looked at me and asked,
"How do you feel living here?"
I thought for a moment.
Then I answered honestly.
"Before, this city felt very unfamiliar."
He looked at me.
"And now?"
I smiled slightly.
"Now it feels better."
He didn't ask why.
But perhaps he understood.
Because sometimes, simply having someone nearby can change life in ways we never expected.
At some point, seeing him every day had become part of my routine.
If one day he was gone longer than usual, I would unconsciously glance at the door across the corridor.
If his door was open, I would feel at ease.
We never said it aloud.
But we both knew that we had become a small part of each other's lives.
A very ordinary part.
Yet also something quietly special.
⸻
Message of Chapter 5
Some relationships make us try very hard to be loved.
But there are people who make us realize that beside them,
we only need to be ourselves.
And sometimes, the feeling of not having to try
is the clearest sign of a deep connection.