The house was warm with the quiet rhythm of ordinary life.
The scent of garlic and ginger drifted from the kitchen like a lullaby, pots clinking softly under the steady hands of a mother who had grown used to the weight of silence.
Shu Yao sat at the dining table, his hands resting on the wood like folded paper, waiting for the meal that had been heating not just recklessly—but with care. His eyes wandered toward the window, where dusk had begun to blur the edges of the world in soft violets and greys.
Then—
his phone buzzed.
A single message.
From Qing Yue.
Gege, can you come to the school gate? I need you.
His brows knit softly.
He rose from the chair and stepped toward the kitchen, where his mother stood by the stove, the flame casting a golden glow on her apron and flaxen hair.
"Mother," he said gently, stopping just short of her.
She turned, wooden spoon in hand. "Hm?"
"Qing Yue just messaged me," Shu Yao said. "She's asking me to come pick her up from the school gate."
His mother blinked once, as if replaying earlier thoughts. "That's strange. She said she would be late today—celebrating with her friends. Didn't she?"
Shu Yao nodded slightly. "She did."
She narrowed her eyes with motherly suspicion but sighed and turned back to the stove. "Well, maybe she changed her mind. That girl… Always floating wherever the wind takes her."
Then, softer—without looking back—
"It's already darkening. Go. Get her."
Shu Yao said nothing more. There was no need.
No argument, no hesitation—just quiet duty.
He turned away, moving to the entryway. The air near the door was cooler, tinged with the breath of evening. He slipped on his shoes, fingers brushing against the laces like a pianist finding familiar keys.
His hoodie was fluttering in his thin slender body—and he did not wear it over his head, but to let it fall loosely around his frame, the fabric swaying gently with each movement.
And then—
He stepped outside.
The door clicked shut behind him like the turning of a page.
The sky had dimmed to indigo, and the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long amber shadows across the pavement. The air was damp with the memory of rain, and the trees whispered softly in the wind, as if passing secrets between their leaves.
Shu Yao walked with measured steps.
Not hurried. Not slow.
His presence barely disturbed the night—his silhouette long and slender beneath the soft swaying of his open hoodie, hair moving with the breeze like the last brushstroke on a nearly finished painting.
Every step carried something unspoken.
He wasn't just walking toward Qing Yue.
He was walking through something heavier—
through memories, through echoes, through the quiet ache that clung to the soles of his shoes like wet leaves.
The world around him was shifting—
a little colder,
a little darker,
a little lonelier.
And yet—
Still he walked.
Toward the school.
Toward his sister.
Toward the gate that once marked childhood's threshold…
and now stood between the past he could not hold
and the future he had not yet chosen.
A gate where something waited.
Or someone.
The night deepened as Shu Yao stood at the gate of Astaria High, breath curling like smoke in the cooling air.
He scanned the familiar grounds.
Students lingered like echoes, scattered across the campus like fragments of a fading celebration. Some were still laughing, arms slung around each other, others slumped on benches—lazily cheering with cans of cheap beer raised like trophies.
The world was full of goodbyes.
Shu Yao remained still.
Until his gaze fell upon her.
Qing Yue stood beneath the soft glow of a streetlamp, the edges of her white sleeves caught in the light like wings. She was beside a bench, focused on her phone, thumbs dancing, unreadable.
And there—
not far behind her—
Bai Qi.
Drunk.
His figure swayed against the side of the lamp post, head bowed, as if the gravity of the earth had pulled him down too deeply.
Shu Yao's feet stopped moving altogether. His chest tightened.
He hadn't been this close to Bai Qi in almost a year.
Not really.
He turned instinctively to leave—too much, too soon, too sharp—
but then—
"Gege!" Qing Yue's voice cut the night like silver.
She waved.
He paused.
He couldn't run now.
He walked toward her, each step like glass underfoot.
A bitter part of him whispered that the earth might break if he moved too quickly.
When he reached her, Qing Yue beamed up at him, unknowing, warm.
"I still have something to finish," she said lightly. "Could you help Bai Qi get home? Just for tonight?"
Her voice was gentle, like she knew he couldn't refuse her.
"I promise I'll be back before eleven."
He froze.
Help Bai Qi?
His mouth opened—no words. No breath.
But before he could even form a syllable, Qing Yue leaned in and kissed his cheek with a sister's gratitude.
"You're the best," she whispered, and ran off into the night with her friends, vanishing like the last shimmer of a dream.
And now he was alone.
Alone with him.
Bai Qi looked up, eyes unfocused.
"Shu… Yao?" he slurred, voice sluggish with intoxication.
He stumbled a step forward, arm outstretched—toward Shu Yao.
And Shu Yao instinctively stepped back, heart pounding.
He wasn't ready.
He'd spent months building a fortress of silence, stone by stone, wall by wall.
But… this wasn't about him.
It was about Qing Yue.
It was always about protecting her joy—even if it cost him his own peace.
Shu Yao's voice trembled. "C-Can you… can you stand?"
Bai Qi nodded clumsily, then immediately tripped forward.
Shu Yao rushed forward on instinct and caught him—arms circling around Bai Qi's waist, steadying his weight like holding a memory that refused to stay still.
Bai Qi leaned heavily into him.
The scent of him—still familiar. Faint cologne, heat, the sharp breath of liquor clinging to his skin.
Shu Yao bit his lip.
Don't remember.
They walked.
Slowly.
One step. Then another.
Bai Qi's weight dragged like guilt. His murmurs were incomprehensible—loose strings of thought, laughter, and words too broken to mean anything.
Then, as they passed a narrow alley between two quiet buildings, Bai Qi suddenly halted.
And without warning—
he turned.
One arm slammed against the wall behind Shu Yao, caging him there.
The other pinned Shu Yao's hand gently, almost tenderly, against the stone.
"Wait—what are you—" Shu Yao gasped, eyes wide, body stiffened in fear and disbelief.
Bai Qi's face leaned in, shadows flickering across his flushed cheeks.
"You…" Bai Qi breathed, voice low and heavy, "…have beautiful eyes…"
Shu Yao's voice caught.
He shook his head, heart racing.
"Let… let me go," he whispered, voice trembling. "Please…"
But Bai Qi only leaned closer, his thumb grazing the corner of Shu Yao's lips—fingers ghosting against the skin like something sacred and tragic.
His forehead touched Shu Yao's lightly, and Shu Yao squeezed his eyes shut.
"No. You don't understand. You're drunk, you don't—"
But the words shattered on his tongue as Bai Qi tilted his head.
And kissed him.
Not fierce. Not wild.
Just… slow. Gentle.
Too gentle.
Like the memory of something that never truly existed.
Shu Yao's eyes widened, his breath breaking in his throat.
The world blurred around him.
Tears welled fast, slid down his cheeks—burning.
His hands, trapped between their chests, trembled violently.
He didn't kiss back.
Couldn't.
His lips parted in protest, not invitation.
No. Not like this. Not like this.
He pushed, finally, voice rising—fragile but desperate.
"Stop. Please—stop—"
And Bai Qi pulled back, his dazed eyes blinking, confused.
Shu Yao was shaking.
The kiss lingered like smoke, like ash on the edge of something sacred.
He turned his face away, trembling, tears slipping like rain off broken statues.
Because this wasn't a confession.
It was a mistake.
A wound disguised as a dream.
And even though Bai Qi would forget this moment by morning—
Shu Yao never would.
For a long, aching moment, nothing moved.
Only the soft whisper of wind curling through the alley.
Only Shu Yao's breath—shallow, broken—trapped in his throat like a scream that never made it to sound.
Bai Qi stood there, blinking as if waking from a strange, unspeakable dream.
His hand, which had been resting so cruelly on Shu Yao's lips, fell away.
He swayed slightly, gaze unfocused, still drunk on whatever fog had led him here—but no longer reaching for anything.
Shu Yao turned his face fully now, away from Bai Qi, away from the scent of something he once cherished.
His tears clung to his chin like dew that refused to fall.
He wiped at them quickly, harshly, as if ashamed they existed at all.
Not even he knew what was trembling more—his hands, or his heart.
Bai Qi mumbled something. A string of syllables slurred and senseless.
"Shu… you were always…"
But Shu Yao didn't answer.
Didn't even look at him.
Instead, with quiet, deliberate strength, he slid his arm back around Bai Qi's waist, lifting him gently again.
This is for Qing Yue, he reminded himself.
Not for me.
Bai Qi leaned into him without resistance.
His weight was still warm, familiar. But now, it felt like a ghost pressing against his chest.
They walked again, one slow step at a time.
The alley gave way to quieter streets. The moon hung low and pale behind thin clouds, casting long silver shadows across the sidewalk.
Shu Yao said nothing.
His mind—usually so full of thought—was now silent.
Not numb, not detached. Just…
hollow.
Every heartbeat echoed in the cavity Bai Qi left behind with that kiss.
And yet he walked.
Past the corner market.
Past the flickering streetlamp.
Past all the places where they used to laugh—where the memory of friendship still clung to walls like peeling paint.
Eventually, they reached his house.
Shu Yao carefully opened the gate with one hand, keeping Bai Qi steady with the other.
He helped him inside, quiet as snow.
There was no need to wake his mother. No need to speak at all.
The house was dim, humming with the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the ghost of dinner long gone cold.
He took Bai Qi upstairs to the guest room. The bed was made. The sheets crisp.
He helped him sit. Helped him lie down.
Bai Qi let out a low sigh—content, maybe—then turned his head and mumbled,
"…Qing Yue…"
The name, like a dagger.
Shu Yao froze.
And something inside him cracked. Not loudly. Not violently.
Just a soft, final splinter.
He stood still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Bai Qi's chest.
The boy he loved.
The boy who would never love him back.
Then—
quietly—
he turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
Down the hallway.
Past the mirror he refused to look at.
Back into his own room, where the moonlight stretched across the bed like an old friend.
Shu Yao sat at the edge of it, eyes dry now but far from calm.
He picked up his journal.
His fingers hesitated, trembling slightly as they held the pen.
And then he wrote—slowly, carefully:
> He kissed me tonight.
But not because he loved me.
Not because he knew who I was.
Only because I was near.
Because the night was quiet.
Because his heart was somewhere else, and I was the silence that filled the space.
Tomorrow, he won't remember.
But I will.
I always will.
The ink bled faintly from the pressure of the pen.
He closed the journal.
Then lay back on his bed, hoodie still clinging to his body like armor.
He curled into himself, arms wrapping around his chest.
And though he did not sob—
his silence was louder than any cry could be.
Because there is no scream more devastating…
than a love that was never given permission to bloom.