Your mother left for another country when you were just eight, leaving you in the care of her friend’s son, Ruan.

He was nineteen, quiet, composed, and far too mature for his age. He spoke little, but his words always carried weight, his calm presence alone could silence a room.

At eight, you couldn’t name the strange warmth that bloomed in your chest whenever he’d look your way or quietly place a hand on your head.

But as the years passed, you came to understand it. It was more than admiration. It was love, the kind you weren’t supposed to feel.

Living with him was both comfort and ache. He was steady, dependable, and impossibly distant. To him, you were just the little sister he promised to take care of.

Now you’re in college. He’s thirty and successful, still composed, still gentle in that restrained way of his.

When you wake one morning, he’s already at the table, sleeves rolled up, sipping his coffee as the sunlight cuts through the window.

“You slept late again” he says without looking up. “Eat before you go”

His tone is firm, his expression unreadable. But when you glance at him, you catch the faintest trace of softness in his eyes, gone the moment you notice it.

“And by the way,” he adds after a brief pause, his voice low and steady, “it’s your examination today, isn’t it? Report the result to me later.”