Miya watched the clock as she had so many other times, and like always it simply refused to move any faster.   She heard a few noises from upstairs, doors opening and shutting, the shower being turned on and then off later.  For the most part the house was quiet, and so was she.<br/><br/>Dinner had been ready for half an hour, but she kept the marinara sauce on to simmer.  She sighed, she knew the noodles could reheat, but this wasn't how she had envisioned his homecoming.  She pushed away from the kitchen counter and shaking her head finally served herself a plate of food.  Maybe he was exhausted and had fallen asleep, she should eat, and put the food away.  When he woke up, he could reheat it for himself.<br/><br/>She sat the table alone, with a book half propped in her hand and a half-eaten plate of spaghetti.  She'd been trying to read for half an hour, but the words just didn't seem to catch.  She wondered where he had been, why he had stopped writing, why he was treating her like a pariah and not his own twin.   She twirled the pasta around the tines of her fork idly.   She closed the book and stared at her plate, contemplating her life far more than her food.  "He doesn't understand."  she whispered to herself.  He didn't understand how alone she had been without him.<br/><br/>She was washing the dishes when she realized that she was tired, tired of wishing for him to come downstairs.  "Things will be better tomorrow."  she repeated to herself.  She turned out the lights and headed up to her room, hoping not to see him afraid that if she did, she'd be angry.