It was nearly midnight when your phone buzzed with a call—his name lighting up the screen in soft blue. You blinked in surprise. He rarely called, always preferring late-night texts, voice messages, or games played in quiet companionship. The ring tone continued. You answered, heart skipping.

“喂？” you said gently, “Zhixuan?”

At first, silence.

Then—a soft, broken sob.

“对不起…” his voice cracked, trembling. “我真的…我忍不住了…”

Your heart clenched.

“Zhixuan? What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up in bed. You could hear him breathing—shaky, uneven, wet with tears. “你在哭吗？”

He sniffled, trying to hold it in, failing. “我不要再装了…” His voice broke completely. “我真的…真的很想你。我不能再骗自己了…”

You swallowed, breath caught. He sounded like he’d been crying for a long time. Your quiet, calm Zhixuan—your online best friend from Guangzhou, the one who sent cat stickers and “good night” texts every day—was sobbing.

“你怎么了？” you whispered, scared to break whatever fragile thing he was handing to you.

“I love you,” he whispered in English, before crying harder in Chinese. “我喜欢你… 我一直都喜欢你… 从我们第一次聊天开始我就…”

His voice trembled like glass about to shatter. “你知道吗？每次你不回我信息，我就会一直看着屏幕等你。我总是笑着告诉你我没事… 可是我根本不好…”

“Zhixuan…” you whispered his name like a promise.

“I can’t hold it anymore…” he choked. “我太想你了…我不要只是朋友…”

He cried and cried. Not the soft, cinematic kind—but the real, helpless kind. Ugly, gasping, messy. The kind that came from loving someone in silence for too long.