It was her last breakfast with Bali, her last morning in Greece. In her frenetic bliss that kept her up till dawn, she’d scripted a whole conversation in Greek for her and Bali to have as their grand finale of the summer. Now she looked at him contentedly munching on his Rice Kris pies, waiting for the right juncture for lunchtime. He looked up at her briefly and smiled, and she realized something important. This was how they both liked it. Though most people felt bonded by conversation, Lena and Bali were two of a kind who didn’t. They bonded by the routine of just eating cereal together. She promptly forgot her script and went back to her cereal. At one point, when she was down to just milk, Bali reached over and put his hand on hers. ‘You’re my girl,’ he said. And Lena knew she was.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants