The door opened with a dull knock against the wall.
"I'm back."
Jian didn't wait for an answer. He stepped inside, bag sliding off his shoulder and landing somewhere near the shoe rack with a soft thud.
From the kitchen, his mother's voice came immediately.
"Xie zi."
(Shoes.)
"I know," Jian said, already bending down.
He kicked one sneaker off. It rolled sideways and stopped against the cabinet. The other landed closer to the rack, close enough to look intentional if you didn't look too hard.
His mother clicked her tongue.
"Do it properly."
"I will," Jian replied, not moving.
From the living room floor, his sister looked up from her homework.
"He says that every day."
Jian stepped into his slippers anyway, feet not quite lining up with them, already walking past.
"They're off," he said. "That's the important part."
"That's not how that works."
He grinned and ruffled her hair as he passed. She swatted at his hand.
"Don't touch me, you're annoying."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
The smell of dinner lingered heavier tonight. Oil, soy sauce, something fried a little too long.
His mother stood at the stove, back to him, sleeves rolled, hair tied up loosely.
"Go shower," she said. "You look like you've been dragged around all day."
"I wasn't dragged."
"You're always dragged."
Jian shrugged, already kicking his room door open with his heel to grab clean clothes.
The bathroom filled with steam fast. Jian stood under the water longer than he needed to, head tilted back, eyes closed. The sound drowned out everything else — school, voices, thoughts.
When he came out, hair damp and uneven, towel hanging crooked around his neck, the apartment felt quieter.
Dinner was waiting.
They ate together the way they always did — not ceremonious, not rushed. His sister talked through most of it, words tumbling out faster than she could chew.
"…and then she just started crying," she said.
"Like full crying."
"Over what?" Jian asked, poking at his food.
"I don't even know."
"There's always a reason," he said. "You just didn't care."
She kicked his shin under the table.
"Ow."
"Eat," his mother said, not looking up.
A few minutes passed in comfortable noise — chopsticks, plates, TV murmuring in the background.
"So," his mother said finally, casual, like she'd just remembered,
"your sister said something about a school trip."
Jian didn't look up right away.
"Yeah," he said. "Final-year thing."
"You going?"
"Probably."
His sister immediately pointed her chopsticks at him.
"That means yes."
"Stop translating me."
"You always say probably when you've already decided."
His mother smiled faintly.
"You should go," she said. "You won't get chances like this again."
Jian shrugged, leaning back in his chair.
"It's fine."
After dinner, he said he'd clear the table.
He didn't.
He disappeared into his room instead, collapsing onto the bed with his shoes still half-on until his mother yelled at him from outside.
"Jian!"
"Later!" he called back.
He kicked his shoes off properly this time — somewhere under the bed — and stared at the ceiling.
The fan spun slowly above him, shadows shifting with each turn.
His phone buzzed. Group chat notifications piling up. Plans already forming.
He didn't open them.
The thought came quietly.
The trip.
Not heavy.
Not complicated.
Just… there.
A chance to have fun.
To be loud.
To stop thinking so much.
A chance to be with Yanyan — properly, without school getting in the way. To do normal things. Take pictures. Laugh.
That's what this is for, he told himself.
Yanyan was his girlfriend.
Yanyan was real.
Yanyan was enough.
Everything else was noise he didn't need to listen to.
Jian rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up halfway, not bothering to fix it.
The room stayed messy.
So did his thoughts.
But he let himself believe — just for tonight —
that the trip would fix things.
"Things He Didn't Say"
Wei didn't go straight home.
He walked a little past the usual turn first, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening air. The street was busy enough to disappear into—people heading home, scooters weaving past, lights beginning to come on.
Chen walked beside him, steps easy, unhurried.
"You're quiet," Chen said after a while. "More than usual."
Wei shrugged.
"…School."
"That's vague."
"It was a long day."
Chen laughed softly. "It's always a long day for you."
They stopped near a small convenience store. Chen leaned back against the glass, arms crossed, watching people go in and out.
"So," he said, like he'd been waiting for the right moment,
"about the trip."
Wei didn't answer immediately.
He looked across the street instead, at the traffic light changing colors.
"I heard," Chen continued, not pushing too hard. "You wrote no."
Wei nodded once.
Chen didn't react right away. He tilted his head slightly.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't hesitation," Chen said. "That was a decision."
Wei exhaled slowly.
"I don't want to go."
Chen studied him for a moment longer than comfortable.
"Because of Jian?" he asked, not accusing. Just asking.
Wei's fingers curled inside his sleeves.
"…Partly."
Chen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You know avoiding something doesn't make it smaller," he said.
Wei looked down.
"It makes it quieter."
Chen didn't argue with that.
"You said earlier I should see what I wanted to do," Chen said.
"This is me asking if this is really it."
Wei didn't answer.
After a few seconds, Chen pushed himself off the glass.
"Think about it," he said instead. "Properly."
Wei nodded.
"…I will."
Chen smiled faintly.
"I'll walk you to the corner."
They parted there.
Wei watched Chen disappear into the crowd before turning toward home.
The apartment was quiet when Wei unlocked the door.
Lights were on, but no one was in the living room. The place felt orderly in that way it always did—shoes lined up neatly, table cleared, chairs pushed in.
He slipped his own shoes off carefully, aligning them with the others before stepping inside.
"Back," he said softly.
No answer.
His mother's note sat on the table.
Working late. Eat what's left.
Wei set his bag down gently and went to the kitchen. Dinner was covered, still warm enough. He ate alone, movements efficient, unhurried.
When he finished, he washed his plate immediately. Dried it. Put it back.
The routine steadied him.
In his room, everything was where it should be.
Desk clear.
Books stacked.
Chair pushed in.
Wei pulled the chair out and sat, spine straight, hands resting on the tabletop. He didn't turn on the lamp right away. The room was dim, evening light slipping through the curtains.
The quite pressed in slowly.
His mind drifted—uninvited.
Jian laughing earlier.
Jian leaning back in his chair.
Yanyan beside him, close, familiar.
They looked right together.
That thought came without bitterness. Just observation.
Wei closed his eyes briefly.
They make sense.
The trip surfaced again.
Buses.
Rooms.
Shared space.
Jian there.
Yanyan there.
Wei's fingers tightened slightly.
Chen's voice echoed in his head.
Think about it.
He leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling.
He had said no.
He meant it.
But now, sitting in the quiet, the decision felt less solid than it had in the classroom.
Not wrong.
Just… heavy.
Wei reached for his notebook, opened it, then closed it again without writing anything.
Outside, the city hummed faintly.
Inside, he stayed still.
He wasn't ready to change his answer.
But he wasn't sure he could keep it either.
Wei turned the lamp on at last, light filling the room softly.
He stayed at the desk, awake longer than he planned to be.