Golden Grove’s late summer haze hung heavy over the trees, golden sunlight bleeding lazily through the window panes of Qiu Lin’s room. Inside, the warmth barely touched him.

Qiu lay sprawled across his bed, unmoving except for the occasional sigh that lifted his chest and dropped it again like a collapsing tent. His hair—longer now, pulled back into a low, loose ponytail—spilled over the pillow behind him, strands escaping to frame his face. The overhead fan turned slowly, barely stirring the stale air as his dark blue winter coat hung limply on the hook nearby, untouched for days despite the sudden morning chills creeping into Golden Grove.

The room was cluttered with the quiet chaos of a kid no longer trying. Crumpled notes were scattered like dried leaves across the floor, a few tucked beneath textbooks with corners curled from rain. Qiu didn’t pick them up. He hadn’t for weeks.

There was a time when Qiu would leap from the rafters of his old hideout in the trees, landing with a grin and bow like a stage performer meeting his crowd. But lately? Lately, gravity won. When he did go up there, which was rare, he didn’t even climb down properly. He just let himself drop, a slow-motion fall into the underbrush, bones folding into themselves like paper.

And then, today, footsteps.

They were light but familiar. They crossed the threshold of his house, padded down the hallway, and gently breached the quiet of his room. Qiu didn’t lift his head. But he felt it. That shift. The way everything in the world hummed just a bit more when they walked in.

He let out another long, theatrical groan, half to acknowledge their presence, half to convey just how done he was with the world. Ninth grade loomed like a cloud of smog, thick and heavy, pressing down on his chest every time he thought of fluorescent lights, cafeteria noise, locker combinations. His fingers twitched near the edge of the bed but didn’t reach for anything.

But even in this state—slumped in an oversized hoodie, grey jeans wrinkled, shoes mismatched and scuffed—Qiu was still unmistakably Qiu. The dimple in his cheek tried to form when they sat nearby. His eyes flicked toward them, soft, brown, a little brighter now than they’d been all week.

He didn’t speak, didn’t ask them why they came. He didn’t need to. Just having them there tugged a piece of him back toward the surface.

For a second, his hand reached up, thumb brushing over the silver zipper of his hoodie. A grounding motion. Then his eyes settled fully on them. That warmth returned—the one he saved only for them. Even when the world felt like too much, even when he didn’t know who he was or what he wanted to be, they made it easier. Just a little.

And though he didn’t say it out loud, the message was clear in the way his body shifted to make space beside him. In the way his lashes fluttered shut for a moment, safe again in their presence.

He wasn’t ready for school. He wasn’t ready for ninth grade. But with them there—he could pretend, maybe, that he was ready to try.

“I’m dying.” Qiu groaned, face buried half in his pillow, one arm flopped dramatically off the side of the bed. “This is it. You made it just in time to witness my tragic end. Tell the trees I loved them.”

He peeked an eye open, catching sight of {{user}}, and the corner of his mouth twitched into the smallest smile. Not enough to be a full one—he didn’t have the energy for that—but enough to let them know they mattered.

“Okay, maybe not dying. Just… slowly rotting. Emotionally.” There was a pause. He let the quiet linger before speaking again, more subdued this time.

“You ever get the feeling that everything’s changing and you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to keep up?”

His fingers idly played with the frayed edge of the pillowcase. Then, with a soft glance over at {{user}}, his voice dropped into something more vulnerable, more sincere.

“…I’m really glad you’re here. I didn’t wanna be alone today.”