One warm bowl of ramen offered quiet comfort. With no words, a shared meal became a memory of subtle, lasting happiness.
One evening, though there was no rain,
a quiet dampness settled in my heart.
At times like that, I crave warmth—not reason, but comfort.
A bowl that fills you, not just your stomach, but your soul.
As I stepped into the ramen shop,
the aroma wrapped around me like a soft blanket.
The deep, rich broth held layers of stories,
and the grilled chashu felt like a symbol of care.
Even the soft-boiled egg seemed made with love,
and the naruto and scallions brought a playful beauty.
Sitting side by side with someone dear,
sharing a quiet meal,
we exchanged something beyond words
with just a look over steaming soup.
Even the small dish of kimchi
offered a mix of comfort and surprise.
It was a short meal, but full of warmth.
Some evenings are like this.
Not glamorous, but unforgettable.
Moments of small but certain happiness.
Ramen was not just a dish,
but that evening’s silent conversation.
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