I watched him sip his tea, fingers trembling slightly, holding the cup as if the warmth could anchor him. Annoying. Always spilling thoughts, always talking too much. And yet… I can't stop noticing. That nervous energy, the way he tries to make the world lighter with his words—it's maddening, infuriating, and quietly… human.
It reminded me of Le Lan back in college. Persistent, cheerful chaos that I wanted to ignore, yet couldn't. The way he poked at my walls, teased me, pulled reactions out of me I didn't want to give. He was unbearable then, and now… I can feel echoes of that same insistence in this boy.
I remembered nights in the dorm when I was sick, curled up with a fever I couldn't shake, and Le Lan had appeared quietly, without fuss or scolding. Just a cup of tea, carefully placed beside me, waiting while I rested. Not saying anything I didn't want to hear, not overstepping, just… existing as a presence that reminded me I wasn't alone. I hated how much I remembered that. Hated that I wanted the same for him now, even if I would never admit it.
The faint aroma of the tea in front of me—its warmth and simplicity—was a small tether to that memory. And I realized the boy in front of me, with his wide, earnest eyes and words spilling faster than the tea itself, is trying, in his own clumsy way, to do the same thing. Quietly. Carefully. Without asking permission.
I kept my gaze on him, clipped, annoyed, as always. "Don't spill the tea on me," I muttered, rough and low, though part of me softened just a fraction. He blinked, startled, tilting his head as if expecting a sharper scolding. "…I—"
I cut him off with a low sigh. "…It's fine. Just… stay. Don't move too fast."
He nodded, almost imperceptibly, settling into a cautious stillness that made my chest tighten without my permission. The tension in the room didn't fade, but it shifted—a silent negotiation between the space we each occupied, between my desire to push him away and the unspoken need to keep him close.
He kept fidgeting with the cup, subtle movements meant to distract himself, yet somehow he drew my attention. I wanted to tell him to relax, to stop trying so hard, but I didn't. Couldn't. That little streak of stubbornness—familiar, irritating, and impossible to ignore—made me realize how much care I had been holding back, all my life, in careful doses.
The quiet between us pulsed with something neither of us could name. Not affection, not trust—yet. But sparks of it flickered in the small gestures, in the way he mirrored my stillness, in the way he didn't force conversation but simply existed in the same space, letting the air thrum with possibility.
My lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. Not a smile. Not yet. But close. Enough that I felt a strange warmth coil in my chest, one I hadn't permitted in years. And as he lowered his gaze, fiddling with the strap of his bag, I realized—he wants to be seen, wants to be noticed, wants… something he doesn't dare ask for.
I clenched my hands on my lap, forcing the irritation back into its usual corners. I couldn't give him too much, couldn't show him the faint pull of nostalgia that tightened around my chest, couldn't let him see the memory of warmth from long ago. And yet… I let myself linger a little longer, watching him, thinking about his trembling fingers, the way he tried so hard to appear steady.
I remember the nights we studied, the small arguments over trivial things, the way Le Lan's laughter echoed against the cold stone corridors. I remember the way he cared without words, and I recognize that same energy here. Not identical, not as effortless—but there. Quiet, persistent. Small sparks lighting a silent fire.
I let my gaze trace the lines of his face, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the little twitch of his fingers. Annoying. Infuriating. And yet… somehow necessary. Because in that quiet, subtle way, he reminded me of what I'd buried inside me: the yearning for someone who notices without judgment, who stays even when it's inconvenient, who brings warmth into a room without asking.
And for the first time tonight, I let myself consider it—not the chaos, not the discomfort—but the possibility that maybe… maybe I don't have to push him away. Maybe I can just watch, just exist, just… let the quiet sparks between us grow, unspoken, unexplored, for now.
And that thought, small as it is, is enough to make the ice in my chest shift ever so slightly. Enough to make me aware of him, aware of us, aware of the impossible thread tying us together in this silent room.
Not trust. Not affection. Not even understanding. Just… a beginning. And sometimes, a beginning is all that matters.