I open the main door of my apartment, and he's there—wearing a thick coat, scarf neatly wound, cheeks slightly pink from the cold. He looks like someone out of an old photo: timeless, composed. In his arms are two flattened boxes and a roll of packing tape—though I don't need it, but I appreciate his effort.
"Hope I'm not late," he says, a soft smile in his voice.
I step aside to let him in. "You're on time. I stacked most of them by the door."
We go upstairs. I live on the third floor, fortunately. His eyes skim over the boxes, then back to me. "This is more than 'a few.'"
"Yeah," I admit. "I might've underestimated it."
"You're like … moving out."
I laugh under my breath. "I wish."
He raises a brow but doesn't press. Instead, he crouches by the boxes and starts lifting the smaller ones, gauging their weight with ease. "Let's get these downstairs first, then come back for the rest."
"Uh. No elevator. But at least ... I'm not living on sixth floor, right?" I grimacing.
