The kitchen is warm, but not hurried. On the stove, a pot of chicken stock simmers softly, filling the air with the smell of thyme and bay leaves. The stock is for ramen, a dish that takes its time, layer after layer building into something complex but comforting. He works slowly, his movements unhurried, as though the world outside doesn’t exist.

“Friendships are a lot like ramen,” he says, his voice breaking the quiet. “They start simple—just water, heat, a few basic ingredients. But the longer you let it simmer, the more flavor they have. That doesn’t mean they’re always easy, though. Sometimes, you can’t tell if you’ve added enough seasoning—or too much.”

He sets a handful of green onions on the cutting board, slicing them thin with a rhythmic motion. “There were these two girls,” he begins, the knife pausing mid-cut. “They used to come in once a week, every Saturday. Two straws, one cup. They sat at the same table, like clockwork. The one by the window, where the sun hits just right around mid-afternoon.”

---

The first time they came in, I couldn’t help but notice them. They were impossible to ignore.

“One of them was tall, lean, with this air of quiet energy. The kind of person who listens more than she talks, but when she _does_ say something, it’s like flipping a light switch. Bright, sharp, attention-grabbing.” He picks up a sprig of cilantro, chopping it with quick precision. “The other? A firecracker. Short, loud, full of gestures that seemed too big for her small frame. She talked with her hands, her head, her whole body.”

They ordered one boba tea, mango with extra pearls. The loud one shoved it toward her friend with a laugh.

“‘You need to try this,’ she said. Her friend just shook her head, muttering something about not liking sweet things, but she took a sip anyway.”

I watched as they fell into their rhythm. Firecracker leaned forward, elbows on the table, words spilling out like water from a faucet. The tall one sat back, legs crossed, nodding every so often, her gaze steady and focused.

“They were opposites, sure,” I say, stirring the broth slowly. “But it wasn’t just that. There was this balance between them, like they were two pieces of a puzzle that clicked together perfectly. Loud and quiet. Big and small. They worked.”

---

Every Saturday, it was the same.

“They’d come in, grab the same table, and order something to share,” I say, ladling the golden broth into a bowl. “Firecracker loved trying new things—different flavors of boba, or a pastry from the case she hadn’t seen before. But the tall one?” He chuckles, setting the ladle down. “She stuck with mango. Every time. No exceptions. I’d hand her the cup, and she’d give me this little smirk, like she was saying, ‘I know what I like.’”

But even the best rhythms falter.

“One Saturday, I noticed something different,” I say, layering noodles into the steaming broth. “They were quieter than usual. Firecracker still talked, but her words were slower, more measured. And the tall one—she didn’t lean back like she usually did. She was sitting forward, her hands clasped around the cup, like she was trying to hold it together.”

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No tears, no raised voices. Just... something.

“Trouble,” I murmur, garnishing the ramen with slices of tender pork belly. “Nothing big, nothing they couldn’t handle. But it was there. A crack in the surface.”

---

I gave Firecracker a recommendation that day.

“She came up to the counter while her friend was distracted, scrolling through her phone. Asked if I had any suggestions.” He pauses, his gaze distant for a moment. “She’s the type who likes surprises, so I told her about the new lychee boba we’d just added. Sweet, floral, a little unexpected.”

She took the cup back to the table, sliding it across with a grin.

“‘I know you like mango,’ she said, winking at her friend. ‘But trust me. You’ll like this one.’”

And for a moment, the rhythm came back.

“The tall one laughed. Not a big laugh, but enough. She took a sip, and her face lit up, just a little. They started talking again, their words filling the space like sunlight through the window. Whatever crack was there—it didn’t vanish, but it softened.”

---

He sets the bowl of ramen on the counter, letting the steam curl upward. “They kept coming back after that,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes they’d bring little notes—things they wanted to try, ideas for new drinks. Firecracker’s notes were always messy, full of doodles and exclamation points. The tall one’s were neat, precise, like she’d thought about every word.”

He smiles faintly, leaning against the counter. “Those notes? They told me more about them than they probably realized. Firecracker loved citrus and couldn’t stand matcha. The tall one? She liked subtle flavors, things that didn’t hit you over the head. She said lavender made her think of spring, and that mango wasn’t just a flavor—it was a memory.”

---

One Saturday, they came in with a group of friends.

“They grabbed their usual table, but it felt different this time. Bigger. Louder. Firecracker was in her element, cracking jokes, passing around cups of boba. The tall one? She was smiling—really smiling. Loose, relaxed, like she’d let something go.”

And that’s when I knew.

“They were celebrating. You could feel it in the air, in the way they laughed, in the way they sat closer than usual, like they didn’t want the moment to end.”

I brought them a tray of mochi—green tea, strawberry, mango—on the house.

“Firecracker was the first to grab one, popping it into her mouth with a grin. ‘Mango,’ she said, handing one to her friend. ‘Your favorite.’”

The tall one smiled, taking the mochi delicately.

“‘Thanks,’ she said, and for the first time, I saw it—the way she looked at her friend. Like mango wasn’t just her favorite. Like it was their favorite.”

---

He looks down at the bowl of ramen, the broth still steaming, the green onions floating like little islands.

“Friendships are like ramen,” he says again, his voice soft. “They’re messy, complicated. They take time. But when you get it right—when you find that balance—it’s worth every second.”

He nods toward the bowl, stepping back with a quiet smile.

“Go on. Try it. See if you can taste what they had.”