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Living together wasn’t difficult, exactly.
It was just… constant.
Three adults, three sets of habits, three entirely different ideas of what “normal” looked like. And somehow, they made it work. Mostly.
Mami was the first to notice Homura’s rigidity.
Not the emotional kind, she’d already known about that.
This was the domestic kind.
Homura folded towels with military precision. She organized the spices alphabetically and by cuisine. She rewound the vacuum cord around her wrist like she was disarming a bomb. One evening, Mami found Homura bent over the toaster, polishing its chrome like it was a ceremonial artifact.
“Homura, dear,” Mami said, leaning on the counter, “You don’t have to fight the appliances.”
Homura blinked, her reflection staring back at her from the gleaming surface. “The toast often sticks. I am attempting to optimize its performance.”
“You’re not disciplining it, are you?” Mami’s lips twitched.
Homura flushed faintly. “I am ensuring its longevity.”
Mami stepped forward and kissed her temple before warmly resting her hands on Homura’s.
“It’s a good toaster, Homura. It does its best.” She gently took the polishing cloth from Homura’s hand. “Let’s give it a break.”
Sayaka, sprawled on the sofa, a half-knitted scarf tangled around her, snorted. “You look like you’re preparing it for a beauty pageant.”
Homura’s gaze sharpened. “It develops scorch marks along the edges I don’t—” She stopped, a familiar tension in her shoulders.
– – –
Sayaka, on the other hand, had the opposite problem.
She left a wake of chaos behind her like a cheerful tornado.
Her things migrated–living room, kitchen, couch, under the dining table somehow. And she sang in the shower. Loudly. Off-key. And always the songs she only knew half the lyrics to.
On most mornings, Homura woke to the gentle scent of Mami’s Earl Grey, brewed exactly to her specifications. A quiet, familiar signal that the day had properly begun.
This morning however, it was the sharp tang of turpentine.
Homura paused at the threshold of the living room, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The easel Mami had gifted Sayaka stood proudly in the center of the room, but the canvas resting on it was as untouched as the day it arrived. A palette lay nearby, streaked with confident swaths of yellow-brown and deep green. The paintbrush she held looked almost too delicate for the enthusiastic energy radiating from her.
Homura surveyed the scene, already imagining the canvas joining the graveyard of forgotten crafts in the hallway closet, stacked somewhere between the abandoned macramé cords and the ill-fated soap-making kit.
“What’s the turpentine for, then?” Homura’s voice, quiet as ever, cut through the morning’s artistic silence.
Sayaka’s head snapped up, a splash of green paint now decorating her cheek. “Oh, hey! I’m going to paint this birdhouse. For the balcony!” She held it up like a trophy. “It’s going to be super cute. I’m thinking, like, a miniature cottage. With a little fence.”
Homura’s eyes drifted to the untouched canvas. “And the easel?”
Sayaka waved a dismissive hand. “That’s for later. Right now, it’s all about the birds. Don’t you think they deserve a nice place to live?”
Before she could frame a comment, Mami entered, tea in hand, and offered warm encouragement to Sayaka’s latest mission: beautifying the balcony for potential bird guests.
“Morning, everyone. Sayaka, that’s a lovely idea. What kind of birds are you hoping to attract?”
“All of them!” Sayaka declared, dipping her brush into a blob of sky blue. “Sparrows, finches, maybe a robin! I’ll put out birdseed too. We’ll be like, a bird sanctuary.”
Paint splattered across the miniature house in joyful, uneven strokes.
The first splotch on the floor caught Homura’s eye like a siren. The rug, precious, irreplaceable, sat only inches away. She instinctively reached for the microfiber cloth she stashed under the coffee table for moments exactly like this.
“Just try not to get paint on the rug, dear,” Mami murmured, her gaze lingering on a small, perfectly round splotch of green on the wooden floorboards.
Mami’s gentle reassurance kept her from going into full crisis mode, though her shoulders remained tense as Sayaka painted a crooked window with cheerful obliviousness.
“Homura, it’s fine,” Mami interjected, her hand gently resting on Homura’s arm. “A little paint adds character.”
Sayaka blew a raspberry. “I’m an artist! A little mess is part of the creative process.”
By evening, the birdhouse blazed with an almost offensive combination of colors and was placed on a shelf as if it were a masterpiece. Homura tried not to think about the incoming bag of birdseed she would inevitably have to reroute to a donation box.
– – –
One morning, Homura stood outside the bathroom door, jaw tight, as Sayaka belted out a warbly rendition of something that might have once been a love song.
Mami placed a gentle hand on Homura’s arm.
“Let it go.”
“She doesn’t know the words,” Homura whispered, horrified. “Why sing if she doesn’t know the words?”
Mami hid her laugh behind her hand.
Homura looked pained. Fond, but pained.
– – –
Despite the chaos of Sayaka’s ever-evolving interests and Homura’s relentless pursuit of order, a strange, comfortable rhythm settled over their lives.
And Mami, well.
Mami had her own habits.
But she wrapped them in grace so neatly that neither Homura nor Sayaka realized how annoying they could be until after the third month of living together.
She talked to appliances.
Genuinely.
Tenderly.
“You’re doing beautifully,” she’d say to the oven, patting its side.
She scolded the kettle if it hissed.
Sayaka once whispered to Homura, wide-eyed,
“Does she know they’re not alive?”
Homura whispered back, “I don’t think that’s the point.”
The washing machine received most of her affection, she praised its effort as if it were a tired coworker.
Sayaka, who had migrated to the living room and was now attempting to teach herself basic coding from a textbook, snorted. “Does she think it’s going to respond?”
Homura, entering with a stack of freshly folded laundry, paused, her gaze fixed on the washing machine. “I believe she finds comfort in the interaction.”
“Comfort?” Sayaka scoffed. “It’s a machine, Homura. It has no feelings.”
Mami turned from the washing machine, a serene smile gracing her lips. “Of course it doesn’t. But it works so hard for us. A little appreciation goes a long way, even for an appliance.”
Homura understood the ritual better, Mami had lived alone for a long time. Talking filled the silence.
She reached out, taking a perfectly folded towel from Homura’s stack. “Thank you for these, dear. They’re always so neat.”
Homura offered a small nod, a subtle warmth spreading through her at the genuine compliment. She knew Mami saw her effort, even if she didn’t always articulate it with the same emotional flourish as Sayaka.
– – –
Mami didn’t need the appliances as much as she used to.
But habits linger.
Sayaka started bowing dramatically to the coffee maker each morning. “Thank you for your service, purveyor of morning glory!”
Homura sighed every single time, a soft expulsion of air that was more habit than genuine exasperation.
– – –
The next week brought a sudden, unexpected influx of succulents. Sayaka had apparently discovered the joys of indoor gardening. The living room became a miniature desert landscape. Sayaka insisted the plants improved the air and the energy of the space, beaming with pride as she misted them with far too much enthusiasm.
“They’re so low maintenance!” Sayaka exclaimed, misting a particularly spiny cactus with a spray bottle. “And they clean the air! We’re basically living in a jungle now.”
Mami, ever the peacemaker, admired a small, flowering succulent. “They are beautiful, Sayaka. Just remember to water them, even if they are low maintenance.”
Somehow, the unlikeliest combination of habits formed a rhythm.
Homura learned to let a few things be less than perfect, a tiny crack in her rigid facade.
Sayaka learned that while Mami would always be patient, Homura’s quiet observations often held a kernel of truth.
Mami learned that her gentle guidance was often all it took to keep their disparate personalities from clashing.
It didn’t feel like “dealing with flaws.” It felt like building a life, carefully, deliberately, with room enough for all their unfinished hobbies, their quirks, and their messy hearts.
The apartment embraced them, a sanctuary built not on perfection, but on love.