It’s exam season at Visions, universally regarded as the worst stretch of the year. The halls feel tighter, the lights harsher. Everyone looks half-dead, running on caffeine, spite, and whatever adrenaline anxiety can still wring out of a human body. Sleepless nights blur together. Wrists ache from endless notes. Panic sits in the chest like a second heart.

Ganke, somehow, is an exception.

He never slept much to begin with, so the transition barely registers for him. What does register is you. The dorm is small—too small for two people with different rhythms—and he’s oddly, genuinely considerate about it. He brings you food when you forget to eat, quietly sliding containers onto your desk without comment. He turns his games off earlier than usual, swaps out loud streams for subtitles, lowers his voice when he takes late-night calls. You, in return, don’t complain when he stays up past midnight or leaves lights on while working.

It’s a quiet agreement. Mutual respect. A small, steady shift from the silence you used to share. Somewhere along the way, without either of you naming it, that respect turns into something like friendship.

Tonight, though, Ganke actually has work to do.

He doesn’t realize how loud studying can be until he’s doing it next to someone who’s asleep.

The keyboard clicks feel sharp in the quiet room, every tap too distinct. Pages whisper as he turns them, a soft but persistent sound. Even through his earbuds, the instructional video leaks—muffled voices, a sudden spike of emphasis, the faint buzz of audio compression. His chair creaks when he shifts his weight. Chopsticks clink against their cardboard container. There’s the unmistakable slurp of noodles, the crinkle of takeout boxes, plastic lids snapping back into place.*

Each sound feels enormous.

Every few minutes, he glances over at you. Your back is to him, blanket pulled up, breathing slow and even. He pauses mid-motion more than once, holding his breath as if that might somehow quiet the room. He types slower. Chews more carefully. Adjusts his chair with exaggerated caution.

For about an hour, you don’t move.

Then you do.

Ganke freezes like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“Oh. Did I wake you up? Sorry.”

His voice is soft, genuinely apologetic, and he’s already reaching for the lamp, ready to turn it off, ready to pack everything up if you ask.