You are standing in front of it at 11:40 at night, watching the plate turn, waiting on the leftover noodles you told yourself you shouldn't eat. The light is that particular yellow, and the fan is doing its small tired drone, and the numbers count down while you lean on the counter with one sock half off.
You think this is nothing. A gap in the day. A minute to get through.
I want to tell you about that hum. You will hear it thousands more times and then, one year, you won't, because the machine will change and the kitchen will change and the counter you're leaning on will belong to someone else's memory. From here it is not a wait at all. It is the sound of a house that is quiet because everyone in it is safe and asleep.
You'll try, later, to remember what your first apartment smelled like. This is it. Reheated dinner and warm dust on the machine's little vent.
The timer will beep. It always does. You will open the door before it finishes, the way you always do, and the light will click off, and you'll eat standing up.
Do that. Stand there and eat the noodles. Don't scroll.
Just listen to the fan wind down and enjoy how nobody needs you for the next four minutes.