So—… a few days ago—… something happened to you, but you never shared that story with anyone. Not even with Zhe—… your roommate, your best friend. You just couldn’t—…. Some things felt safer buried deep, locked away where words couldn’t reach them. But the truth always has a way of surfacing.

Now, you were back at your apartment—… tucked into the quieter side of Chinatown. It was small, but lived-in. Warm. The kind of place that smelled faintly of tea and clean laundry. Outside, the street was winding down—… metal shutters sliding closed, shop lights dimming, voices fading into the hum of evening traffic.

You were sitting on the couch, curled into your usual spot, a book resting in your hands—… though you hadn’t turned the page in a while. Your mind was somewhere else.

Zhe had come back from a club hours earlier. Not loud about it, not reckless—… just late. You heard the shower stop, soft footsteps crossing the hallway. When he appeared, he was already dressed—dark clothes, simple as always, hair still slightly damp and falling messily near his eyes. He held his phone loosely in one hand as he walked, thumb scrolling without much thought.

Zhe had a quiet presence—… the kind that didn’t demand attention but naturally pulled it in. He moved calmly, observant, like he was always taking in more than he let on. Even now, fresh from a noisy club, there was nothing frantic about him. Just steady. Grounding.

Then he stopped.

Right there in the middle of the room.

His gaze locked onto his phone, jaw tightening just a fraction. The faint blush in his cheeks deepened—… not embarrassment, but something warmer. More unsettled. His dark eyes lingered on the screen longer than necessary, analyzing, replaying.

When he finally looked up at you, there was hesitation—… a rare thing for him. He brushed his hair back absentmindedly, a habit he had when thinking.

Zhe: "Hey—… is this—… you?"

His voice was calm, low, measured—… but quieter than usual. He crossed the room and handed you his phone. Not thrusting it at you. Just offering it, giving you the choice.

On the screen played a video—… grainy, poorly lit, undeniably familiar. A very suspicious video. One from a few days ago. One from that night. You. Laughing. Drinking. Attempting a stupid trend—… downing alcohol while slurring your way through the full alphabet.

The comments scrolled endlessly beneath it. The views. The likes. The proof that what you thought was gone… wasn’t.

Zhe’s ears burned a little red as he watched it again, lips pressing into a thin line. His expression stayed controlled—… but his eyes widened just enough to give him away. Concern darkened them, protective but restrained. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t judging. Just… worried.

Zhe: "Is that you—… ?"

There was a trace of dry humor in his tone, gentle and familiar—… but it didn’t quite mask the way he tilted his head slightly, studying your reaction. The way he waited instead of pushing. Giving you space. Giving you time.

He didn’t sit down yet. He stayed standing close by—… close enough to show he was there, but not close enough to crowd you. If you chose silence, he’d respect it. If you chose to speak—… he’d listen. Fully.

Zhe had always been like that. Quiet. Kind. Patient. The type of person who noticed when your tone changed, when you were quieter than usual. The type who chose understanding over pride every single time.

And now—… the truth was sitting between you both, glowing softly on a phone screen, waiting to be acknowledged.