Wei's mother came on Thursday.
Jiang Yue found out the way he found out most important things in this household: by accident, through thin walls, at the worst possible time.
He was in his room after school, headphones on, pretending to study while actually staring at the same paragraph he'd been reading for twenty minutes. His brain was still stuck on the stairwell—on Wei's face, on the word sorry, on the shoulder touch that had lasted maybe ten seconds but felt permanent.
Then he heard voices.
Not the usual ones. Not his mother's gentle tone or Wei Chengyu's measured cadence.
A new voice.
Female. Soft. Careful in the way people were careful when they knew they were unwelcome.
Jiang Yue pulled off his headphones.
The voice came from the living room, muffled but clear enough to catch fragments.
"...just wanted to see how you're doing..."
"...not staying long..."
"...you've grown so much..."
Jiang Yue's stomach dropped.
He stood up slowly, walked to his door, and opened it a crack.
Through the gap, he could see the living room.
A woman sat on the edge of the sofa, perched like she was ready to leave at any moment. She was in her early forties, thin, well-dressed in a way that looked expensive but not warm. Her hair was pulled back neatly. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers moving against each other in a constant, anxious rhythm.
She was beautiful.
And she looked like Wei.
The same jawline. The same dark eyes. The same careful posture.
Except where Wei's control looked like strength, hers looked like guilt.
Wei Chengyu stood near the window, arms crossed, expression rigid. He looked like a man who had opened his door to a ghost and was deciding whether to be polite about it.
Their mother—Jiang Yue's mother—was in the kitchen, hovering, clearly unsure whether to stay or leave. She held a cup of tea she hadn't served to anyone.
And Wei.
Wei sat in the armchair across from his mother.
Still.
Silent.
His face was the blankest Jiang Yue had ever seen it. Not calm. Not controlled. Blank. Like someone had wiped the surface clean and left nothing behind.
His hands rested on the armrests, fingers flat, unmoving.
He looked like a statue of himself.
The woman—Wei's mother—leaned forward slightly. "Nianzhan," she said, voice trembling at the edges. "I know this is sudden."
Wei didn't respond.
She continued, hands tightening. "I should have called more. I should have come sooner. I know that."
Wei's expression didn't change.
She swallowed visibly. "Your father and I... we agreed it was better if I didn't interfere. After the divorce. He said you were doing well. He said you didn't need—"
"He was right," Wei said.
Two words. Flat. Final.
The woman flinched.
Wei Chengyu's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
Jiang Yue's mother shifted in the kitchen doorway, face tight with the discomfort of witnessing something that belonged to a family she'd married into but didn't fully understand.
Wei's mother tried again, voice softer. "I brought something. For you."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small wrapped package. She held it out, hands slightly unsteady.
Wei looked at it.
He didn't take it.
The package hovered between them like an offering that had arrived three years too late.
Jiang Yue's chest ached from watching.
Wei's mother's hand trembled. "Please," she whispered.
Wei's gaze lifted from the package to her face.
For one second, something moved behind his blank expression. Something old and deep and wounded.
Then it vanished.
"Thank you for coming," Wei said, voice perfectly polite. "You should go."
The words were civil.
They were also devastating.
His mother's face crumpled. Not dramatically—she controlled it, the same way Wei controlled everything, and Jiang Yue saw exactly where Wei had learned that skill.
She set the package on the coffee table. "I'll leave this," she said, voice strained. "In case you change your mind."
Wei didn't look at it.
Wei Chengyu cleared his throat. "I'll walk you out."
It was a command disguised as courtesy.
Wei's mother stood, smoothing her coat. Her eyes stayed on Wei for a long moment, searching, hoping.
Wei didn't look at her.
She turned and walked toward the door.
As she passed the kitchen, her gaze met Jiang Yue's mother's.
Something passed between them—two women connected by the same man, separated by different versions of the same story. Jiang Yue's mother nodded slightly, a gesture that was neither warm nor cold. Just acknowledgment.
Wei's mother's eyes glistened.
Then she was gone.
The front door closed.
Wei Chengyu followed her out, presumably to escort her to the elevator. To make sure she actually left.
The apartment went silent.
Wei sat in the armchair, motionless.
The wrapped package sat on the coffee table, untouched.
Jiang Yue's mother stood in the kitchen, looking at Wei with an expression that broke Jiang Yue's heart—helpless, compassionate, wanting to comfort but knowing she hadn't earned the right.
She took a breath and walked toward Wei slowly.
"Nianzhan," she said gently. "Can I get you anything?"
Wei's gaze stayed forward. "No. Thank you."
She hesitated, then reached out and touched his shoulder lightly.
Wei didn't react.
She withdrew her hand, nodded once, and walked toward the bedroom, giving him space.
The living room was empty now except for Wei.
And Jiang Yue, behind his cracked door, watching.
He should close the door. He should give Wei privacy. He should pretend he hadn't seen any of it.
But Wei was sitting in that chair like he was made of stone, and the blankness on his face was worse than any expression Jiang Yue had ever seen—because blankness wasn't peace.
It was overload.
It was a system shutting down because the input was too much to process.
Jiang Yue opened his door.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
He just stepped into the hallway and walked toward the living room.
Wei heard him coming.
His gaze shifted—barely—toward Jiang Yue.
Jiang Yue didn't stop at a safe distance.
He walked to the sofa across from Wei and sat down.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
He just sat there, present, in the room where something painful had just happened, refusing to let Wei be alone with it.
Wei stared at him.
The blankness cracked.
Not into tears. Not into anger.
Into exhaustion.
Pure, raw, bone-deep exhaustion.
Wei's shoulders dropped—a millimeter, maybe two—and his fingers unclenched on the armrest.
Not surrender. Just... release.
The smallest amount of weight, shifted from carrying alone to being witnessed.
They sat in silence for a long time.
The wrapped package sat between them on the coffee table, neither opened nor discarded.
Finally, Jiang Yue spoke. "You don't have to open it."
Wei's gaze flicked to the package, then away. "I know."
Jiang Yue continued, quiet. "And you don't have to throw it away."
Wei's jaw tightened.
Jiang Yue said, "It can just sit there. Until you decide."
Wei stared at the coffee table.
His throat moved.
Then he nodded once, barely.
Permission.
Not to feel better. Not to forgive.
Just permission to not decide yet.
Jiang Yue leaned back on the sofa and looked at the ceiling.
"My dad left when I was eight," he said.
Wei's gaze shifted to him.
Jiang Yue didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, voice flat. "He didn't call. Didn't write. Didn't send packages. Just... gone. Like I was a chapter he decided to skip."
Silence.
Jiang Yue continued. "My mom never talked about him. She just... kept going. Made breakfast. Went to work. Smiled at parent-teacher meetings. Pretended the empty chair at the table was normal."
His voice roughened slightly. "I used to wait for him to call. Every birthday. I'd charge my phone and keep it on my pillow and wait."
He paused.
"He never did."
The words fell into the room quietly.
Wei didn't speak.
But his breathing changed. Slower. Heavier.
Like he was absorbing the weight of it.
Jiang Yue finally turned his head and looked at Wei.
Their eyes met.
And in that look, something bridged—not romance, not attraction, not the charged electricity of the hallway or the party.
Something deeper.
Understanding.
The specific, terrible understanding of being left by someone who was supposed to stay.
Jiang Yue's mouth curved slightly—not a smile, just a softening.
"At least yours came back," he said.
Wei stared at him.
Then something happened that Jiang Yue had never seen before.
Wei's eyes filled.
Not tears falling. Not crying. Just fullness—a gloss over the dark iris, a brightness that had nowhere to go.
Wei blinked once, hard, and it was gone.
But Jiang Yue had seen it.
And he would never forget it.
Wei cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said, voice rough.
Jiang Yue's chest tightened. "For what."
Wei's gaze held his. "For sitting here."
Three words.
Simple.
Enough.
Jiang Yue nodded once and looked away, because if he kept looking at Wei's face right now, he would do something honest and irreversible.
They sat together until Wei Chengyu came back.
When the front door opened, Wei's expression sealed again—calm, controlled, blank.
But different.
Because now there was someone who'd seen underneath.
And that someone was sitting on the sofa with him, doing nothing, saying nothing, being everything.
Wei Chengyu walked in, glanced at them, and paused.
His gaze moved from Wei to Jiang Yue, then back.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe. Or something gentler.
He didn't comment.
He just walked toward the bedroom.
And Jiang Yue sat there, beside the wrapped package and the silence, and thought:
This is what honest looks like.
Not words.
Not confessions.
Not notebooks or hallway whispers.
Just showing up.
Just staying.
Just refusing to let someone be alone with the thing that broke them.