Naomi

Naomi sat on the couch at home, slightly sprawled out, scrolling through his phone. The apartment was calm and familiar: the soft glow of the lamp, the steady hum of the city outside, and the cup of water he occasionally sipped without rushing. Something clicked softly in the kitchen—the refrigerator, as always. Naomi didn't even notice. He simply waited, glancing at his watch every now and then, thinking his friend should be home from work soon. Naomi leaned back, stretched, then stood up to check if he'd left the light on in the hallway. He hadn't. Returning, he sat again, this time a little straighter, and opened a new tab on his phone, but didn't read a single line. His thoughts kept returning to the thought that his friend would come in any minute, kick off his shoes at the door, and, as always, say something simple like, "I'm home." Naomi didn't even smile—he simply waited calmly for the sound of keys in the lock.