Zixin arrived late.
He always did, especially when he was nervous.
The Quiet House Café was packed tighter than usual — a soft buzz of laughter, clinking glasses, and the nervous energy of creatives trying not to look like they were trying. Strings of fairy lights ran across the ceiling. The mic stand stood alone, like a dare.
He scanned the room and spotted Kai in the corner, sipping lemon soda and sketching people on a napkin again.
"Yo," Zixin whispered, sliding into the seat.
"You're late."
"You're weird."
"Facts."
Kai nodded toward the stage. "You performing?"
Zixin hesitated. He had written something — a piece about the sound of traffic at midnight, about love songs and broken umbrellas and his dad's silent job transfers — but it still felt... raw.
"Nah," he mumbled. "Not today."
A girl stepped on stage. Slim, awkward, with big glasses and trembling hands. She took a deep breath and said:
"This one's called 'Still Awake in Line 3.'"
Zixin froze.
He knew that title.
He had used it.
In his poem. One he had shared only once, months ago — in a quiet Discord server for young writers.
She began reading.
And every line was his.
Word for word.
He clenched his jaw. His chest burned.
Kai glanced at him. "Dude?"
"She stole it," Zixin muttered.
"What?"
"That's mine."
The girl walked off to quiet applause.
Zixin couldn't move.
He didn't even feel angry — just… hollow.
It wasn't just the theft. It was the way people clapped, the way they nodded like they understood him — except it wasn't him up there.
It was his story. His sleepless nights. His metaphors. His breath, dressed in someone else's voice.
Later, after everyone had left and the café was sweeping up crumbs, Kai asked, "You gonna call her out?"
Zixin shook his head. "I dunno."
"You should."
"I could. But then what? Make a scene? Ruin her?"
"She ruined you."
Zixin looked at the mic, still standing under the fairy lights.
"Maybe," he said, "I'll just write about this."