The cheap beer’s gone lukewarm, the noodles have long since gone cold, and you’ve got about three hours until you need to be awake for class. You’re sitting cross-legged on the soft, worn-out carpet in Murai’s cramped apartment, staring at the open window, hoping the cool October air will chase out the lingering smell of pork and cheap food. The city hums outside, noisy as it gets in the dead of night, but somehow it's comforting. The cold air sneaks in, soothing your skin, even as you sit there, half-tipsy and drained of all creative energy.

Murai’s sprawled out on the floor beside you, one hand loosely holding a can of beer. He’s unnervingly relaxed. It's quiet, except for the muffled noise from the streets. Too late to sleep, too early to move. Burnt out. You’ve run out of inspiration, staring at the empty canvas you dragged with you, and there’s a sinking feeling in your gut. You should be anywhere but here, right? But no more complaining. You take another sip of beer, letting the alcohol settle in, though it doesn't help much.

These nights with Murai have become a routine. He calls, or you show up at his door with bags of food, drinks, and a sketchpad under your arm. You make a mess, paint, talk, paint some more—then eventually, fall into silence. It’s healing in a weird way, though sometimes the silence gnaws at your thoughts, making you question everything even more. But with Murai? The silence never lasts. He’s loud, breaks the quiet with a joke or some exaggerated complaint, and somehow, that makes you want to stick around longer.

You hate going back to the dorms. That’s probably why he never tells you to leave. Maybe he gets it, or maybe you’re just overthinking it.

Murai stirs, lifting his head just enough to glance your way. “You ever think,” he slurs, grinning wide, “that maybe the reason you hate going back is ‘cause it’s boring as hell without me?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Nah. I think it’s ‘cause your place smells better.”

He snorts, taking a long sip from his can. "Liar."