They didn't study. Not really.
Elian closed his textbook with a quiet thud and slid it under the desk.
Juni looked up from his sketchbook. "You sure?"
Elian nodded. "If I read one more paragraph, I'm going to forget all of them."
Juni smiled faintly. "Doctor's orders?"
Elian snorted. "Self-preservation."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the light. For once, the ticking clock didn't sound like a countdown.
They made tea in the kitchen—nothing fancy, just warm mugs held between their hands. Elian leaned against the counter while Juni rinsed the cups, humming softly again.
Elian didn't ask him to stop. He let the sound settle into the room.
"…I forgot what it's like to do nothing," Elian admitted.
Juni glanced over his shoulder. "You're doing something."
"What?"
"Resting," Juni said. "It just looks unfamiliar on you."
Elian laughed quietly. "I feel exposed."
"That means it's working."
Later, they sat on the floor of Elian's room, backs against the bed, knees drawn up. Juni opened his sketchbook—not to draw, but to flip through older pages. Nervous lines. Dark shading. Half-finished ideas.
"I don't want to bring all this into tomorrow," Juni said softly.
Elian nodded. "You don't have to."
Juni tore out a page, then another—careful, deliberate. He folded them and tucked them into his bag.
"What are you doing?" Elian asked.
"Leaving the weight here," Juni replied. "I'll come back for it later."
Elian watched, something warm tightening in his chest. As evening settled in, the sky outside deepened to indigo.
"…No matter what happens tomorrow," Juni said, eyes fixed on the window, "we still meet at the bus stop."
Elian smiled. "Always."
Juni hesitated, then added, "…Even if one of us feels like hiding."
Elian turned toward him. "Especially then."
They didn't touch. They didn't need to.
When Juni left, Elian stood by the door longer than necessary, watching the streetlights flicker on. He felt calmer than he had in weeks.
Not confident. Just grounded.
That night, he opened the folded scrap of paper Juni had given him earlier. Inside, written in careful handwriting, were four words:
Breathe. You are enough.
Elian closed his eyes.
Across the city, Juni lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, the exams didn't feel like a verdict. They felt like a moment. One of many. He thought of Elian's laugh, the shared tea, the quiet.
And he slept.
Tomorrow would ask everything of them. But tonight—They chose to be gentle.
And that, Juni thought as sleep claimed him, might be the bravest thing they'd done yet.