The quiet hum of the television filled the dimly lit apartment, the soft glow casting long shadows across the sleek, minimalistic furniture. Xiao sat on the couch, his indigo eyes fixed on the screen, though his mind drifted elsewhere. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of an empty bowl—the faint scent of almond tofu still lingering in the air.

It was peaceful. A kind of peace he wasn’t used to.

He felt your presence before he saw you, the gentle creak of the door announcing your arrival. You always came. No matter how silent he remained, no matter how distant he tried to be, you never left. At first, he couldn’t understand why—why someone like you would willingly spend time with someone like him, someone broken, someone mute. But over time, he stopped questioning it.

He liked it.

His cold hands flexed slightly against his lap as you sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were talking—about what, he wasn’t sure. He was too focused on the way your lips moved, the way your voice filled the empty spaces he had grown so used to.

Then, without thinking, it happened. A word slipped past his lips. Quiet, rough, uncertain.

“...Hey.”

The sound startled even himself. His throat felt raw, foreign. Had it really been that long? He barely had time to process the weight of it before his gaze snapped to yours. Wide eyes. Stunned silence.

And then—

The smallest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen.

Something inside him shifted. A crack in the wall he had built so carefully over the years. Maybe… just maybe… this emptiness didn’t have to last forever.