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the first time wu suo wei saw chi cheng back in summer of 2018, he knew he was the one. not in the way adults know, with logic and caution, but in the way sixteen-year-olds do: with a heart that leaps before it learns to walk.
chi cheng had sharp eyes and a smile that felt like sunlight through leaves. he wore a white shirt, slightly wrinkled, and his laugh echoed across the basketball court like something you’d want to bottle and keep. suo wei’s chest filled with something warm and quiet, like a secret only his cat could sense. it made him giddy, smiling through math class, humming on the way home, scribbling hearts in the margins of his notebook.
“his name’s chi cheng. twenty-one. university student,” xiao shuai mutters, eyes glued to the screen as he digs through the internet. suo wei doesn’t understand how xiao shuai does it. how he finds people from thin air but xiao shuai calls it investigative journalism.
“do you think he likes younger guys?” suo wei asks, dreamy-eyed, clutching his chest like it might burst with hope. beside him, xiao shuai keeps typing, his fingers moving like he’s solving a mystery.
“he’s in university, da wei. no one looks back at high school once they’re there. guys like him? they want grown-ups too,” xiao shuai says, like it’s gravity. but he says it gently, not to crush suo wei’s spirit but to ground.
one would think that this would defeat suo wei but he… he is just him. the kind of boy who believes in slow-burn miracles.
they return to the court often, lingering near the benches, pretending to stretch or shoot hoops. chi cheng doesn’t come back. the court feels emptier each time, but suo wei keeps looking.
then one afternoon, cheng yu shows up with his usual swagger—hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck, a grin that makes people feel like they’re in on something.
“you’re friends with chi cheng?!”
the words tumble out, stunned and breathless as they look at their trusty neighbor. xiao shuai nearly drops his phone. they’ve searched for weeks, circled back to the same court, hoping for a glimpse. but chi cheng never returned.
cheng yu laughs, loud and knowing. he ruffles their hair, arms slung around their shoulders like summer.
“of course i am. how do you think he ended up at the court near our neighborhood?”
he says it like it’s obvious, like chi cheng is just another guy who passes through, but to suo wei, he’s not just another guy. he’s the beginning of something.
“can you introduce us?” xiao shuai asks, half-serious, half-teasing.
cheng yu raises an eyebrow. “depends. are you going to be normal or weird?”
“define normal,” xiao shuai says, already grinning.
suo wei stays quiet, heart thudding as he imagines meeting chi cheng. what he’d say, how he’d smile, whether his voice would sound like it did in his daydreams. he doesn’t need much. just a moment. just a hello.
and maybe, if the universe is kind, something more.
—
the next saturday, cheng yu tells them to come by the court around five. “he usually plays around that time,” he says, tossing the words casually, like they don’t carry the weight of a thousand daydreams.
suo wei spends the whole afternoon choosing a shirt. he settles on the pale blue one, the one xiao shuai said made him look “less like a baby.” he doesn’t want to look older, just… not sixteen. not too young and not too far away.
xiao shuai shows up with his camera, claiming it’s for “documenting the moment.” he’s grinning like he knows exactly what kind of moment this might be.
“you’re ridiculous,” suo wei says, but he’s smiling too.
the court is half-lit by the late sun, shadows stretching long across the pavement. cheng yu is already there, bouncing a ball lazily, hoodie sleeves pushed up and he waves them over.
“he’s coming,” he says, and it’s not dramatic, not cinematic. just a fact. but it makes suo wei’s heart skip.
and then chi cheng walks in.
he’s taller than suo wei remembered, or maybe it’s just the way the light hits him. his hair is a little messy, his shirt dark with sweat. he laughs at something cheng yu says, and it’s the same laugh; the one that echoed in suo wei’s head for weeks.
“hey,” cheng yu calls, gesturing to the two boys. “these are my friends. xiao shuai and suo wei.”
chi cheng turns, eyes landing on them. his gaze is sharp, but not unkind. he nods, offers a small smile.
“nice to meet you,” he says.
suo wei’s voice catches in his throat. he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times, but now it’s here, and all he can do is nod.
xiao shuai, ever the savior, steps in. “we’ve seen you play before. you’re good.”
chi cheng chuckles. “thanks. i just come here to blow off steam.”
“do you play often?” suo wei manages, voice soft.
“not really. depends on my schedule,” chi cheng replies, then glances at cheng yu. “he drags me here sometimes.”
cheng yu grins. “you love it.”
they talk a little more about basketball, about university, and about the neighborhood. xiao shuai asks questions like he’s interviewing a celebrity, and chi cheng answers with amused patience. suo wei mostly listens, heart fluttering with every word.
at one point, chi cheng looks at him directly. “you’re quiet.”
suo wei shrugs. “i’m just… taking it in.”
chi cheng smiles. “that’s fair.”
the sun dips lower, painting the court in gold. cheng yu starts shooting hoops and xiao shuai joins him, camera forgotten. chi cheng stays beside suo wei, leaning against the fence.
“you live around here?” he asks.
“yeah. just a few blocks away.”
“cool. maybe i’ll see you around.”
suo wei nods, trying not to smile too hard. “maybe.”
and in that moment, with the air warm and the sky soft, it feels like the beginning of something. not loud. not certain. but real.
two hours has passed and they walk home slowly, the three of them. the sky is streaked with pink and gold, and the air smells like warm pavement and the faint sweetness of someone’s laundry.
xiao shuai is talking, of course. “you froze,” he says, nudging suo wei with his shoulder. “you didn’t even say your name.”
“i did,” suo wei mumbles, but he’s not sure. everything after chi cheng said “nice to meet you” is a blur.
“you didn’t,” cheng yu confirms, grinning. “but it’s okay. he’ll remember you anyway.”
suo wei looks at him. “you think so?”
“you’re memorable,” cheng yu says, like it’s obvious. “you’ve got that… tragic poet energy.”
xiao shuai snorts. “more like lovesick goldfish.”
suo wei doesn’t argue. he’s too busy replaying the moment chi cheng looked at him and said, “you’re quiet.” the way he smiled after. not mocking. not dismissive. just… noticing.
he wonders if chi cheng will think about him later. probably not. but maybe.
they reach the corner where they usually split—cheng yu heading left, xiao shuai and suo wei going straight. cheng yu ruffles their hair again, like he always does, and says, “same time next week?”
“if he’s there,” xiao shuai says.
“he will be,” cheng yu replies, and there’s something in his voice that makes suo wei’s heart flutter.
that night, suo wei lies in bed with the lights off and the fan humming. his cat curls beside him, purring softly. he stares at the ceiling, heart still full.
he doesn’t write in his journal. not yet. he wants to hold the memory a little longer before putting it into words. like it might lose its glow if he tries too soon.
instead, he whispers into the dark, “maybe.”
and it feels like a promise.
—
the next morning, suo wei wakes early. not because he has to, but because his heart won’t let him sleep in.
he sits by the window with a cup of warm soy milk, watching the neighborhood stir. the sky is pale and gentle, and everything feels like it’s waiting for something. he opens his journal, finally, and writes:
he said “you’re quiet.”
i think he meant it kindly.
i think i’ll remember it forever.
he doesn’t write much more. just those lines, and a small sketch of the court, the way the light looked when chi cheng leaned against the fence.
xiao shuai messages him around noon:
“you still floating?”
suo wei replies:
“maybe.”
xiao shuai sends back a photo—chi cheng mid-laugh, blurry but golden. “i told you the camera was a good idea,” he says.
suo wei saves it to his phone. he doesn’t tell anyone, feeling like he was trying to protect something… his.
—
later that week, they’re back at the court. cheng yu’s tossing a ball, xiao shuai’s fiddling with his camera again, and suo wei’s pretending not to look around too much.
chi cheng arrives just as the sun begins to dip. he waves at cheng yu, then unexpectedly, at suo wei.
“hey,” he says. “you came back.”
suo wei nods, heart thudding. “yeah. i like the light here.”
chi cheng smiles. “me too.”
they don’t talk much. just a few words, a few glances. but it’s enough. it’s more than enough.
and when chi cheng leaves, he says, “see you next time, suo wei.”
he remembers his name.
suo wei walks home with xiao shuai, the former being quiet and glowing.
“he remembered,” he says.
xiao shuai grins. “of course he did. you’re unforgettable.”
suo wei doesn’t reply. he’s too busy holding the moment close, like a secret pressed between pages.
the next morning, suo wei wakes before the sun. the sky outside is a pale wash of blue, the kind that feels like it hasn’t decided what kind of day it wants to be. his cat is curled against his side, warm and steady, and for a while, he just lies there, listening to the hum of the fan and the distant sound of someone sweeping the street.
he doesn’t move. not yet.
he replays it again: see you next time, suo wei.
his name, spoken like it mattered. like it belonged.
he presses his face into the pillow and exhales. it’s ridiculous, he knows. it was just a name. just a moment. but it feels like something cracked open inside him, something soft and glowing.
he gets up slowly, pads to the kitchen in his slippers and pours himself a cup of warm soy milk. the mug is chipped at the rim, but it’s his favorite. the one with the faded cartoon bear. he sits by the window, knees tucked to his chest, watching the neighborhood stir.
a dog barks. a tricycle rattles past. someone hangs laundry on a line, shirts fluttering like flags.
he opens his journal, flips past the sketch of the court, and the notes about chi cheng’s smile. he recalls the way his laugh sounded like sunlight so he writes:
he said my name.
i didn’t know it could feel like this.
like being seen.
like being real.
he stares at the words for a long time. then, in the corner of the page, he draws a small fence. just two lines. just enough.
that night, suo wei sits at his desk with the window open. the breeze is cool, carrying the scent of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. his cat jumps onto the windowsill, tail flicking and eyes half-closed.
he doesn’t write again. not yet. he just sits there, watching the sky darken, listening to the quiet.
he thinks about chi cheng’s voice. the way he leaned against the fence. the way he said, “you’re quiet,” like it wasn’t a flaw, just a fact. maybe even a good one.
he whispers into the dark, “do you think he’ll come back?”
the cat blinks at him, slow and unbothered.
“yeah,” he says, answering himself. “me too.”
—
the third time they meet, it’s a thursday.
the court is quieter than usual. the sun is low, casting long shadows across the pavement. cheng yu is late, and xiao shuai’s off chasing a story about a local ghost sighting, so it’s just suo wei and chi cheng.
suo wei arrives early, pretending he’s just passing by. he sits on the edge of the bench, notebook in hand, sketching the outline of the fence. he doesn’t expect chi cheng to come, not really. but he hopes.
and then he does.
“you’re early,” chi cheng says, dropping his bag beside the bench.
“so are you,” suo wei replies, trying not to sound too breathless.
chi cheng smiles. “i had a free afternoon. figured i’d shoot around.”
he starts dribbling lazily, not really playing, just moving. suo wei watches, notebook forgotten in his lap.
after a while, chi cheng sits beside him, wiping sweat from his brow. “you draw?”
“sometimes,” suo wei says. “mostly fences and shadows.”
“that’s oddly specific.”
“i like quiet things.”
chi cheng nods. “me too.”
they sit in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy. just soft.
“what’s high school like now?” chi cheng asks, glancing at him.
suo wei shrugs. “loud. everyone’s trying to be someone. or trying not to be seen.”
“sounds familiar.”
“what about university?”
chi cheng leans back, looking up at the sky. “it’s different. lonelier, in a way. you have more freedom, but less certainty. people come and go. classes change. friends drift.”
“that sounds sad.”
“not always. sometimes it’s good. you learn who you are when no one’s watching.”
suo wei thinks about that. about how he feels most like himself when he’s alone, or with xiao shuai, or now, maybe with chi cheng.
“i think i’m still figuring that out,” he says.
“you’ve got time.”
chi cheng says it like a promise.
they talk a little more about teachers, about favorite snacks, about how chi cheng used to sneak out of class to sit by the river. suo wei listens closely, storing every detail like a treasure.
when the sun dips lower, chi cheng stands. “i should head out.”
“okay.”
he picks up his bag, then pauses. “you coming back next week?”
suo wei nods. “yeah.”
chi cheng smiles. “good. see you then.”
he walks away, and suo wei watches him go, heart full and quiet.
--
the next time they meet, it’s after school. the sky is overcast, the kind of gray that makes colors feel louder. suo wei arrives early again, notebook in his bag, heart already a little too fast.
chi cheng’s already there.
he’s sitting on the bench, earbuds in, head tilted back like he’s listening to the clouds. when he sees suo wei, he pulls one earbud out and smiles.
“you always come early,” he says.
“you always beat me to it,” suo wei replies, sitting beside him.
they don’t talk for a while. just sitting there, watching the court. a few kids are playing on the far end, their laughter echoing faintly.
“you like school?” chi cheng asks eventually.
suo wei shrugs. “i like some parts. i like literature. and lunch.”
chi cheng laughs. “lunch is important.”
“what about you?” suo wei asks. “do you like university?”
chi cheng thinks for a moment. “i like the freedom. but sometimes i miss the structure. in high school, everything’s planned. in university, you have to make your own shape.”
“that sounds hard.”
“it is. but it’s also… freeing. like you get to decide who you are.”
suo wei nods slowly. “i think i’m still figuring that out.”
“that’s good,” chi cheng says. “you’re not supposed to know yet.”
they fall into silence again, but it’s not empty. it’s full of something soft and growing.
“do you ever miss it?” suo wei asks. “high school?”
“sometimes,” chi cheng says. “not the exams. but the feeling of being in something together. like you’re all part of the same story.”
suo wei looks down at his hands. “i think i’m still in the middle of mine.”
chi cheng glances at him. “you’ll write a good one.”
later, when suo wei gets home, xiao shuai is waiting on his porch with a big bag of chips and a grin that spells trouble.
“you’re late,” he says.
“i wasn’t aware we had a schedule.”
“we do now. it’s called ‘tell xiao shuai everything the moment it happens.’”
suo wei rolls his eyes but sits beside him anyway.
“so?” xiao shuai prompts. “did he say your name again? did he ask for your number? did he confess his undying love and offer you a mixtape?”
“he said i’ll write a good story.”
xiao shuai pauses. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“that’s worse.”
suo wei laughs, head tipping back. “shut up.”
“no, really. that’s like… emotional intimacy. that’s dangerous.”
they sit in silence for a while, passing the chips back and forth.
“you like him,” xiao shuai says eventually, not as a tease, but as a truth.
suo wei doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to.
—
suo wei doesn’t remember the first time he was held, but he remembers the feeling.
warmth. steadiness. the quiet hum of his mother’s voice as she folded laundry, the way his father always knocked gently before entering his room—even when the door was wide open.
he remembers the mornings when he woke up crying from a dream he couldn’t name, and his mother would sit beside him, brushing his hair back, saying, “you’re safe. you’re loved. always.”
he remembers the way his father carried him on his back when he was too tired to walk home from school, even when he was already too big for it. “you’re heavy,” his father would joke, but never once put him down.
he remembers the quiet dinners, the shared silences, the way his parents never asked him to be louder, brighter, more like someone else. they just let him be. and loved him for it.
when he was ten, he asked his mother, “what if i run out of love?”
she looked at him, surprised. then smiled, soft and sure.
“you won’t,” she said. “you were given so much. it’ll keep growing.”
“but what if someone doesn’t love me back?”
“then you’ll still have love. because it’s yours. it doesn’t disappear just because someone doesn’t take it.”
he didn’t fully understand it then. but he remembered it. tucked it away like a folded note in his pocket.
now, at sixteen, sitting on a bench beside chi cheng, watching the sky shift from gold to gray, he thinks about that.
he thinks about how his heart feels full, even when he’s unsure. how he doesn’t feel desperate, or hollow, or afraid.
because he knows that he was loved so well, so deeply, that he’ll never run out.
he has enough to give. enough to wait. enough to hope.
—
the moments that followed played like a film. suo wei and chi cheng are walking home again.
the court emptied slowly, the sky dimming into a soft lavender. cheng yu had left early for dinner, and xiao shuai had darted off to chase a rumor about a haunted pastry shop. that left suo wei and chi cheng, side by side on the quiet sidewalk, their shadows stretching long behind them.
chi cheng kicks a pebble forward. “you always seem calm,” he says.
suo wei shrugs. “i just like walking.”
“you don’t talk much.”
“i do. just not all at once.”
chi cheng laughs softly. “fair.”
they pass a small bakery, its windows fogged from the inside. the smell of warm bread drifts out, and suo wei slows down, breathing it in.
“you want to stop?” chi cheng asks.
suo wei shakes his head. “i like the smell more than the taste.”
chi cheng glances at him. “you’re strange.”
“you’re the one walking with me.”
“true.”
they keep going. the streetlights flicker on, one by one.
“you’re easy to be around,” chi cheng says after a while.
suo wei doesn’t answer right away. just smiles, small and quiet.
“you don’t ask for anything,” chi cheng adds. “you just… show up.”
suo wei looks down at his hands. “i think showing up is enough.”
chi cheng nods, thoughtful. “it is.”
they reach the corner where their paths split. chi cheng pauses, hands in his pockets.
“see you next week?”
“yeah,” suo wei says. “i’ll be here.”
chi cheng smiles. “i know.”
suo wei gets home just after sunset.
the sky is still streaked with lavender, and the air smells faintly of warm pavement and someone’s dinner. he walks slowly, replaying the way chi cheng smiled at him, the way he said “i know” like it wasn’t a question.
his cat greets him at the door with a soft meow, tail flicking. he bends down, scratches behind her ears, and whispers, “he remembered again.”
she blinks at him, unimpressed.
xiao shuai shows up half an hour later, unannounced, with a bag of sweet bread and a grin that’s already suspicious.
“you’re glowing,” he says, flopping onto suo wei’s bed like he owns it. “again.”
“i’m not,” suo wei says, but he’s smiling.
“you are. it’s disgusting.”
“you brought bread.”
“to soften the blow.”
suo wei sits beside him, pulling the bag open. the bread is still warm. they eat in silence for a while, the kind that only best friends can share without it feeling empty.
“so?” xiao shuai says eventually. “what did he say this time?”
“he said i’m easy to be around.”
xiao shuai pauses. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“that’s worse.”
suo wei laughs, head tipping back. “you always say that.”
“because it keeps getting worse. next thing you know, he’ll say you make him feel safe and i’ll have to throw you into the river.”
“you’re dramatic.”
“and you’re in love.”
a beat.
xiao shuai nudges him gently. “you’re different lately.”
“how?”
“softer. steadier. like you’re holding something close.”
suo wei looks down at his hands. “maybe i am.”
xiao shuai doesn’t press. just leans back, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.
“he’s lucky,” he says.
“i’m the one who likes him.”
“still. he’s lucky.”
—
they meet again on another thursday, but this time, chi cheng is late.
suo wei waits on the bench, notebook in hand, sketching the curve of the basketball hoop, the way the chain net hangs loose. the court is quieter than usual. the sky is heavy with the promise of rain.
when chi cheng finally arrives, he looks tired. not just physically, but in the way his shoulders slope, the way his smile takes a second longer to appear.
“sorry,” he says, dropping his bag beside the bench. “group project ran long. i almost forgot what sunlight looked like.”
“it’s okay,” suo wei says, scooting over to make room. “i wasn’t in a rush.”
chi cheng sits, rubbing his eyes. “you ever have to work with people who don’t care?”
“every day,” suo wei says. “it’s called high school.”
chi cheng laughs, but it’s quiet. “yeah. but in university, it’s worse. you’re all supposed to care. but no one has time. everyone’s juggling internships, part-time jobs, thesis deadlines. it’s like… everyone’s already halfway somewhere else.”
suo wei doesn’t know what to say to that. his biggest worry this week was a chemistry quiz and whether xiao shuai would remember to return his charger.
“do you like it?” he asks instead.
chi cheng is quiet for a moment. “i don’t know. i think i’m supposed to.”
they sit in silence, the kind that feels a little heavier than usual.
“sometimes i miss when everything felt smaller,” chi cheng says. “when the biggest thing was whether i’d get caught sneaking snacks into class.”
“i still do that,” suo wei says, trying to make him smile.
it works, a little. “you’re lucky,” chi cheng says. “you still get to be in it.”
“in what?”
“that part of life where everything feels like it matters. where you can fall in love with someone just because they lent you a pen.”
suo wei looks down at his hands. “i think i’m in that part right now.”
chi cheng glances at him, something unreadable in his expression. “yeah. i can tell.”
the rain starts, soft and slow. chi cheng pulls an umbrella from his bag and opens it over them.
“come on,” he says. “i’ll walk you home.”
suo wei steps under the umbrella, close enough to feel the warmth of chi cheng’s arm beside his. they walk in silence, the rain tapping gently above them.
and though they’re side by side, suo wei feels the space between them—age, time, the quiet ache of someone already moving forward.
but he also feels this: chi cheng still showed up. still walked beside him. still held the umbrella.
and for now, that’s enough.
—
it’s late when chi cheng messages him.
just a simple:
“you free tomorrow?”
suo wei stares at the screen for a moment, heart fluttering. he types back:
“after four.”
chi cheng replies:
“cool. want to walk?”
they meet near the river, where the path curves gently and the trees lean in like they’re listening. the air is cool, the light soft. chi cheng’s wearing a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, and hands in his pockets.
he doesn’t say much at first. just walks beside suo wei, steps slow, gaze flicking toward the water.
“long day?” suo wei asks.
chi cheng nods. “just… a lot in my head.”
suo wei doesn’t press. he’s learned that silence can be a kind of invitation.
after a while, chi cheng speaks again. “you ever feel like you’re supposed to be someone else?”
suo wei glances at him. “sometimes. but not with you.”
chi cheng smiles, but it’s faint. “i think that’s why i keep showing up.”
they stop at the edge of the path, where the railing overlooks the river. chi cheng leans against it, eyes on the water.
“you make things feel… quieter,” he says. “not empty. just… less loud.”
suo wei’s heart stirs. not because of the words, but because of the way chi cheng says them like he’s been holding them in, unsure if they’d be understood.
“i like being around you,” chi cheng adds. “it’s not like with other people. you don’t ask me to be anything.”
suo wei swallows. “i just want you to be here.”
chi cheng turns to look at him then, really look. and there’s something in his eyes—soft, searching, a little afraid.
“i think i’m drawn to that,” he says. “to you.”
the words settle between them, quiet and real.
suo wei doesn’t speak. he just steps a little closer, close enough that their sleeves brush.
chi cheng doesn’t move away.
—
suo wei doesn’t hear from chi cheng for a week.
not a message. not a photo. not even a “busy this week.” he tells himself it’s fine. university is heavier. chi cheng said so himself. but still, he checks his phone more than usual. rereads their last conversation. wonders if he said something wrong.
xiao shuai notices.
“you’re quieter than usual,” he says, tossing a grape into his mouth during lunch.
“i’m always quiet.”
“yeah, but this is the ‘thinking-too-much’ quiet. the ‘he hasn’t texted me back’ quiet.”
suo wei doesn’t deny it.
xiao shuai leans in, voice softer. “you okay?”
suo wei shrugs. “i think he’s changing.”
“or maybe he’s just tired.”
“maybe.”
but it’s not just that.
when chi cheng finally messages, it’s short:
“sorry. been swamped. hope you’re okay.”
suo wei stares at it for a long time.
he types:
“i’m okay. hope you’re resting.”
he doesn’t say he missed him. doesn’t say he kept waiting. doesn’t say he walked past the court twice just in case.
—
they meet again the following week.
chi cheng looks tired. his hoodie’s wrinkled, his eyes shadowed. he smiles when he sees suo wei, but it’s slower, like it takes effort.
“sorry,” he says. “this month’s been hell.”
“you don’t have to apologize,” suo wei says.
they sit on the bench. chi cheng talks about deadlines, a professor who keeps changing the rubric, a friend who’s moving abroad. suo wei listens, nods, offers quiet replies.
but something’s different.
chi cheng doesn’t ask about his sketches. doesn’t tease him about his silence. doesn’t lean close like he used to.
he’s here. but not fully.
and suo wei feels it.
that night, suo wei writes:
i think he’s still drawn to me.
but the world is pulling harder.
and i don’t know if i’m enough to hold him here.
he closes the notebook gently, presses his palm against the cover like he’s trying to keep something from slipping.
outside, the wind rustles the leaves. his cat jumps onto the windowsill, tail flicking.
suo wei whispers, “i think he’s drifting.”
and this time, he doesn’t answer himself.
—
they meet again on a sunday afternoon, not at the court, but at a small café near the university. chi cheng had suggested it. said he needed to be nearby for a meeting later, but wanted to see suo wei if he had time. suo wei had said yes, of course. he would’ve said yes even if it meant walking an hour in the rain.
the café is warm and dim, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu that changes every day. chi cheng is already there when suo wei arrives, hunched over a laptop, earbuds in, a half-finished cup of coffee beside him. he looks up when suo wei walks in, and his face softens, just a little, like a window catching the last of the light.
“hey,” chi cheng says, pulling out the earbud. “sorry, i just needed to finish something.”
“it’s okay,” suo wei says, sliding into the seat across from him. “you don’t have to stop.”
“no, i want to,” chi cheng says, and he closes the laptop, just like that.
they order drinks; suo wei gets something warm and sweet, something with milk and cinnamon, and sit in the quiet hum of the café. outside, the sky is pale and overcast, the kind of gray that makes everything feel a little closer, a little more fragile.
chi cheng talks about school, about a classmate who keeps missing deadlines, about a professor who gave him a compliment that didn’t feel like one. suo wei listens, nods, offers a small smile when it feels right. he doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to. chi cheng fills the space between them with words that sound like exhaustion, like someone trying to hold too many things at once.
and then, somewhere between sips of coffee and the sound of rain beginning to tap against the windows, chi cheng says, “i don’t know why i keep coming back to you.”
suo wei looks up, startled. “what do you mean?”
chi cheng’s eyes are on his cup, fingers tracing the rim. “i mean… i’m tired all the time. i don’t even see my friends that often anymore. but with you, it’s different. it’s like—” he pauses, searching for the right shape. “—like i can breathe.”
suo wei doesn’t know what to say to that. his heart is too full, too quiet. he wants to reach across the table, wants to say something that will make chi cheng stay, not just here, but in this softness between them.
instead, he says, “then breathe.”
chi cheng looks at him, and for a moment, there’s something open in his face. something raw. “you make it feel easy.”
“it’s not,” suo wei says. “but i want it to be.”
they sit in silence after that, the kind that feels like a held breath. chi cheng doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t open his laptop again either. he just sits there, with suo wei, as the rain falls softly outside.
and for a little while, that’s enough.
—
the fall out started with a message.
not a long one. not dramatic. just:
“can we talk?”
suo wei reads it three times before replying.
“okay.”
they meet at the river, where the path curves and the trees lean in like they’re listening. it’s late afternoon, the light pale and gold, the air heavy with the kind of quiet that feels like something waiting to fall.
chi cheng is already there when suo wei arrives. he’s leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets, eyes on the water. he doesn’t look up right away. when he does, his smile is soft, but it doesn’t reach far.
“thanks for coming,” he says.
“you asked,” suo wei replies.
chi cheng nods. “i know.”
they stand in silence for a while. the river moves slowly, like it’s trying not to disturb anything.
“i’ve been thinking,” chi cheng says eventually. “about us. about everything.”
suo wei doesn’t speak. he just waits.
chi cheng exhales. “i saw him again. my ex.”
the words land like a stone in water—quiet, but deep.
“we talked,” chi cheng continues. “and… it felt familiar. like something i didn’t realize i missed.”
suo wei’s fingers tighten around the railing. he doesn’t look at chi cheng. he watches the river instead.
“i didn’t plan it,” chi cheng says. “but it happened. and now we’re… trying again.”
suo wei nods, slowly. “okay.”
“i’m sorry,” chi cheng says. “i didn’t want to hurt you.”
“you didn’t,” suo wei says, but it’s not true. not really.
chi cheng turns toward him. “you’re young, suo wei. you’re still in high school. i kept telling myself it didn’t matter, but it does. it’s not just the age. it’s the timing. the shape of our lives.”
“i know,” suo wei says.
“we wouldn’t have made it,” chi cheng says, voice low. “not because you’re not enough. you are. you’re more than enough. but i’m not ready. and you shouldn’t have to wait for someone who keeps disappearing.”
suo wei finally looks at him. “then why did you keep coming back?”
chi cheng’s face twists, just slightly. “because you made it feel easy. and i was selfish.”
the silence between them stretches. not angry. just full of everything they can’t hold anymore.
“i don’t regret it,” chi cheng says. “being with you. knowing you. i just… i think i need to let you go before i make it worse.”
suo wei nods. “okay.”
chi cheng steps closer, like he wants to say more. but he doesn’t. he just reaches out, gently, and touches suo wei’s shoulder.
“you’re going to be okay,” he says.
suo wei doesn’t answer. he doesn’t cry. he just stands there, steady, heart breaking in the quietest way.
chi cheng walks away.
and this time, he doesn’t look back.
that night, suo wei writes:
he didn’t leave loudly.
he didn’t leave cruelly.
he just left.
and somehow, that hurts more.
—
suo wei doesn’t realize it all at once.
it comes in pieces—slow, like light creeping through a closed curtain. like waking up from a dream that was too warm, too soft, too close to something he shouldn’t have touched.
he’s brushing his teeth when it hits him. just standing there, staring at his reflection, the toothbrush still in his mouth. he’s sixteen. still in uniform. still living under his parents’ roof. still asking permission to stay out late.
and chi cheng is twenty-one.
a university student. someone who signs his own forms. someone who lives alone, who drinks coffee to stay awake, who talks about internships and thesis deadlines and people suo wei has never met.
they were never in the same place.
they were never supposed to be.
he spits the toothpaste out, rinses his mouth, and grips the edge of the sink. his hands are shaking.
how did he not see it?
how did chi cheng?
later, he’s lying on the floor of his room, staring at the ceiling, when he says it out loud.
“it wasn’t right.”
xiao shuai, curled up beside him with a bag of chips and a playlist of sad songs, turns his head. “what?”
“me and him. it wasn’t right.”
xiao shuai doesn’t say anything. just waits.
“i’m a minor,” suo wei says. “he knew that.”
“yeah.”
“and he still let it happen.”
“yeah.”
suo wei closes his eyes. “but i loved him.”
“i know.”
“i still do.”
“i know.”
they lie there in silence, the music humming low in the background. something about rain and missing someone. something about time.
“do you think he’s a bad person?” suo wei asks.
xiao shuai is quiet for a long time. then: “i think he made a choice he shouldn’t have. even if he didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“but he did.”
“yeah.”
“and i let him.”
“you didn’t know.”
“i should’ve.”
“you were sixteen.”
suo wei presses his palms to his eyes. “i feel stupid.”
“you’re not.”
“i feel used.”
“you were.”
the words land hard, but they don’t shatter him. they settle. they make sense.
and still—beneath all of it—he misses him.
not the older boy who left. not the one who said “we wouldn’t have made it.” but the one who sat beside him on the bench, who walked him home in the rain, who said “you make it feel easy.”
that version of chi cheng still lives somewhere in him.
but now, he knows better.
he knows that love isn’t always enough. that timing matters. that age matters. that power matters.
he knows that just because something felt real doesn’t mean it was right.
and he knows, now, that healing isn’t about forgetting.
it’s about seeing clearly and choosing to stay soft anyway.
and so suo wei returns to his notebook.
he turns to a blank page, one he knows will be the last. and sits with it for a while, the pen resting lightly in his hand. outside, the sky is beginning to pale. the world is moving on, as it always does.
he writes:
it was never a waste to love chi cheng, even if only for a little while. every ounce of love i gave him is his to keep. and though the timing was wrong, and the choices were his to make, i will carry what’s mine.
to love, to lose, and still remain kind.
no love withheld,
wu suo wei
p.s. i still believe he’s the one. and i will probably grieve about it for a long time. but it’s okay :)
he closes the notebook gently, like setting something down that no longer needs to be held.
and this time, he doesn’t look back.
5 YEARS LATER
the gallery is still, hushed in the way early mornings are before the lights warm fully, before the footsteps come. suo wei stands in the center of the room, arms crossed loosely, watching the light shift across the wire installation he suspended from the ceiling. it’s a structure made of absence: thin lines of steel tracing the outline of a room that doesn’t exist, glass panes catching the light like memory. the shadows it casts are soft and fractured, like something once whole, now held together by intention alone.
he’s twenty-one now. the same age chi cheng was when they met. the thought doesn’t sting anymore, but it echoes. it hums beneath his ribs like a low, familiar note.
he’s adjusting the angle of a spotlight when he hears the door open. he doesn’t turn. no, not right away. the footsteps are slow, deliberate. not hesitant, but careful. like someone stepping into a place they’ve dreamed about too many times to trust it’s real.
then a voice, low and unmistakable: ”suo wei.”
he turns.
and there he is—chi cheng. a face he thought he’s long forgotten. he stands just inside the doorway, dressed in black, the light catching in his hair, softening the sharpness of his jaw. he looks older but there’s something gentler in the way he holds himself now. less guarded. less afraid.
suo wei doesn’t speak. he just watches him for a moment, letting the years settle between them like dust.
chi cheng steps forward, slowly. “i didn’t know this was yours.”
“it is,” suo wei says, voice quiet but steady.
chi cheng’s eyes move across the installation. “it’s beautiful.”
“thank you.”
they stand side by side, looking at the piece. the silence between them is not awkward. it’s full of breath, of memory, of everything they never said and everything they don’t need to.
“i remember how you used to draw shadows,” chi cheng says. “even back then.”
suo wei smiles, faintly. “i still do. i just learned how to build them.”
chi cheng nods, his gaze still on the sculpture. “it feels like you.”
“it is me,” suo wei says. “but it’s also… everything i couldn’t say.”
chi cheng’s eyes flick toward him. “i think i understand.”
suo wei doesn’t look away. “do you?”
“i think i’m starting to.”
they fall quiet again. the light shifts. the shadows stretch.
“i used to wonder,” chi cheng says, “if you’d hate me.”
“i didn’t,” suo wei replies. “i couldn’t.”
“i wasn’t sure i deserved that.”
“you didn’t,” suo wei says. then, softer: “but i gave it anyway.”
chi cheng breathes in, slow. “you’ve grown.”
“so have you.”
“i’m glad,” chi cheng says. “that you’re here. that you’re doing this.”
suo wei nods. “it’s good to see you.”
chi cheng turns to him, and for a moment, the years fall away. “it’s good to see you too.”
they don’t touch. they don’t make promises. but they stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the light move through the room suo wei built. and in that silence, something opens. not a door. not a wound. just a window.
a beginning, maybe.
or maybe just a moment.
but either way, it’s enough