Spring had just arrived, but winter still hadn't completely left.
At 6:40 in the morning, the sky was already bright, yet the sunlight still carried a thin, foglike grayness. The east-facing window in the apartment's living room wasn't large. Light filtered through the glass and the somewhat faded beige curtains, leaving only a few blurry patches of brightness on the wood floor. The clothes hung on the balcony overnight swayed gently in the morning breeze. Every now and then, a hanger tapped against the drying rod, making a fine, steady sound.
The window wasn't fully shut. Cold air slipped in through the gap and slowly spread along the floor. Normally, Xu Weiran would have frowned and closed it long ago, but he wasn't awake yet. The only light in the entire apartment came from the kitchen's warm yellow lamp.
The alarm hadn't gone off either, but the sound of pots clattering was already coming from in front of the kitchen counter.
Dong Enze was barefoot on the slightly cool floor. His loose gray sweatpants fell to his ankles, and he wore a white T-shirt that had been washed so many times its collar had begun to stretch. The shirt was his; the sweatpants might not have been. After being washed a few times, their loungewear often got mixed together, and since their sizes weren't that different, neither of them had bothered sorting it carefully for a long time.
He still had a dark blue apron tied around his waist. Xu Weiran's mother had stuffed it into a box three years ago when she mailed over some side dishes. A ridiculously cheerful yellow chick was printed right in the center, and it happened to suit Enze's current habit of humming as he drifted around in front of the stove.
The butter in the frying pan melted slowly, tiny white bubbles forming around the edges. Enze cracked an egg one-handed. The liquid dropped into the pan with a sizzle, and the egg white quickly spread across the surface. He lowered his head to watch the heat, but the melody he was humming never stopped. It sounded as if it had been pulled from a piece they had been rehearsing recently, only a few short bars repeated so many times that he had hummed them out of tune. In the end, even the rhythm no longer matched the original very well.
The toaster beside him went ding.
Two slices of lightly browned toast popped up. Enze casually transferred them to a plate, then glanced at the clock on the wall.
6:43.
He flipped the first egg and called toward the short hallway.
“ Weiran—”
The apartment was too quiet in the early morning. His voice bounced off the walls and sounded louder than usual.
“Time to get up—”
There was no response from the end of the hall.
Enze wasn't surprised in the slightest. He didn't even turn around, only smiled and lowered the heat.
Six years.
This was what Xu Weiran was like every morning when it was time to get up.
The first call usually meant he genuinely hadn't heard. At the second, the person under the blankets might roll over. By the third, he would finally manage a vague nasal sound to prove he was still alive. If he'd worked too late the night before, it got even worse. Once, Enze had stood beside the bed and sung a song from verse to chorus, but the person in bed still hadn't opened his eyes. When Enze was about to sing it a second time, Weiran threw a pillow at him.
The force wasn't much, but the aim was excellent.
Enze divided the fried eggs between two plates. His was cooked through, while he left Weiran's yolk slightly runny. He took the milk from the refrigerator and filled his own glass to the brim. When it was time to pour into the glass across from him, his wrist naturally stopped halfway.
Any more and Weiran wouldn't finish it.
That person didn't have much of an appetite in the morning, and after waking up, he considered even talking too much effort. If no one kept an eye on him, he could probably survive on a cup of black coffee until afternoon, then wait until his stomach began hurting before casually opening a packet of crackers in the studio.
Enze had first discovered this during their second month of rooming together.
That day, Weiran's face had gone pale from the pain, yet he had still sat in front of the computer and said he simply wasn't hungry. Enze had been so angry he nearly closed his laptop for him. In the end, he stubbornly cooked a pot of rather terrible porridge and sat beside him until he finished it. After that, there was always milk in the refrigerator, and the kitchen cabinet always held a few packets of crackers that could quickly fill his stomach.
At first, Enze had reminded him. Later, it became a habit. Eventually, he didn't even need to remind him anymore.
Enze set the two glasses on the table and called toward the hallway a second time.
“Xu Weiran—”
“If you don't get up now, breakfast is going to get cold.”
The room remained completely quiet.
He tilted his head toward the clock.
6:47.
If he didn't dig the man out of bed now, their plan to leave at 7:30 would definitely get pushed back again.
Enze untied the apron, which hadn't really been necessary in the first place, put the spatula in the sink, and walked down the hall.
The apartment really wasn't big.
It was a two-bedroom apartment, with only a half-height kitchen counter separating the kitchen from the living room. It took no more than a few steps to get from the dining table to the doors of their rooms, and when the bathroom door opened, it could block half the hallway. When they had first moved in, though, they had thought it was more than good enough.
That year, they had both been twenty-two.
Weiran was still a senior in college, attending classes during the day and spending his nights in a cramped rented studio, earning a living by arranging music, editing tracks, and producing demos for other people. Enze had only recently joined the dance company. He was just the most ordinary company member, going to rehearsals, accompanying performances, subbing for senior dancers in classes—in short, taking almost every job he could get.
They didn't have much money, and they crossed off their requirements for a place to live one by one. No elevator was fine. An older building was fine. A tiny kitchen, mediocre soundproofing, and a few patched cracks in the walls were all fine too. As long as they could afford the rent and it wasn't too far from school, the dance company, and the place where Weiran worked part-time, that was enough.
They searched rental-listing sites for several weeks. They saw basements so poorly lit they required lamps during the day, and places where one bed nearly filled the entire room. In the end, they found this place.
On the day they signed the lease, the landlord handed them the keys and warned them that the water heater occasionally threw a tantrum. Enze was too busy standing in the middle of the living room with his arms spread wide, gesturing at the patch of space where he could practice dancing. Weiran watched from the side and mercilessly informed him that, within that area, he would hit the dining table after half a turn.
On the first day they moved in, the apartment contained almost nothing.
There was only the old sofa the landlord had left behind, a dreary-colored dining table, and one cheapest-possible twin bed in each room. They bought the refrigerator from a secondhand website. The seller lived on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. By the time the two of them had hauled the heavy refrigerator downstairs, their arms and shoulders were covered in bruises.
When they got back to the apartment, they were too exhausted even to wipe down the table. Instead, they sat side by side on the living-room floor, leaning against the refrigerator they had just carried home but couldn't plug in yet, and ate instant noodles.
Steam from the paper bowls blurred their vision. Enze remembered Weiran lowering his head to glance at the refrigerator, whose corners were chipped in places, and saying calmly, “We'll replace it when we have money.”
Enze immediately chimed in that they needed to replace the sofa too, and the beds, and preferably the dining table. Once they had a little more money, they would move somewhere with a larger living room—ideally with one room where he could dance and another where Weiran could work.
At the time, Weiran had complained that he was thinking too far ahead, but he hadn't argued.
As it turned out, that refrigerator lasted a full four years, finally retiring only after it completely died on a summer night. The sofa was still there too, now with a light gray throw Enze had bought draped over it. The dining table had been worn even older by use, and one corner still bore the dent Enze had made when he bumped it while carrying a speaker.
A lot of things were like that.
At first, they kept them only because they had no choice, always thinking they would use them temporarily. Later, when their incomes slowly improved, they replaced things one by one whenever they could. The things they couldn't replace remained, growing old alongside their lives.
Then, in the blink of an eye, six years had passed.
Enze stopped in front of the familiar door—so familiar he could have found it in his sleep.
He raised his hand and lightly knocked twice on the wooden door.
“I'm coming in.”
No one answered.
He waited outside for two seconds, then expertly took the silence as permission.
This was a rule they had developed after years of living together. Weiran didn't like people entering his room without permission, especially when he was working. Once the door was closed, it meant do not disturb. At first, Enze had obediently waited outside too. Later, he realized that Weiran couldn't hear knocking at all when he was wearing headphones, and could sit at his computer working until he forgot to eat and sleep. Gradually, Enze became the exception.
The first time he opened the door and walked in without permission, Enze had actually prepared himself to be yelled at.
Weiran had been wearing headphones. He looked up at Enze with a cold expression.
“What?”
“I'm telling you to eat.”
“Oh.”
He hadn't gotten angry or told Enze to leave.
After that, knocking, waiting two seconds, and going in if there was no answer slowly became a silent understanding known only to them.
Enze pressed down the handle.
In the dim room, the blackout curtains were open only a crack. Morning sunlight slipped through and fell at an angle across the foot of the bed, illuminating several audio cables that hadn't been put away. The air held a faint woody fragrance mixed with the lingering warmth of computer equipment that had been running for a long time.
Xu Weiran was curled entirely beneath the comforter, with only half his face showing.
His black hair was a complete mess from sleep, with one tuft sticking up especially prominently at the crown. A faint red mark remained on his right cheek from pressing against the pillow too long. In sleep, the usual distant coldness between his brows and eyes had disappeared, making him look slightly younger than he really was. He was completely different from the Xu Weiran at work: quiet, demanding, and occasionally capable of silencing an entire recording studio with a single look.
Enze stood beside the bed for a few seconds, the corners of his mouth lifting without him realizing it.
“You really are just like a cat.”
The person in bed immediately furrowed his brow.
“…You're loud.”
His voice was terribly hoarse, the end of the sentence still buried in the pillow. He clearly wasn't truly awake.
“Breakfast is ready.”
“Mm-hmm…”
“Aren't you supposed to go to the company today?”
Weiran rolled over, giving him the back of his disheveled head, and pulled the comforter a little higher.
“Five minutes.”
Enze looked down at the bundle of blankets and couldn't help laughing.
“You say five minutes every day.”
“Today it's real.”
“Yesterday was real too.”
“So was the day before yesterday.”
Weiran finally opened his eyes and turned his face out of the pillow, glaring at him with visible displeasure. The look wasn't intimidating so much as annoyed at being woken up.
“Get out.”
Enze raised both hands with a grin.
“Got it.”
He took two steps, then stopped at the door.
“There’s only half a glass of milk. Remember to drink it.”
“…Mm-hmm.”
“Don't dump it in the sink when I'm not looking.”
The person on the bed didn't answer.
Enze turned back and drew out his call. “Xu Weiran.”
Weiran kept his eyes closed, as though even opening them was too much work.
“I know.”
“That's more like it.”
Enze left the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
Click. The latch caught softly. The hallway fell quiet again, but the smile at the corners of his mouth didn't disappear right away.
It was only a few steps from Weiran's door back to the dining table. Enze had walked that distance countless times over the past six years. He could avoid the storage bin by the wall with his eyes closed. Yet standing there, he suddenly felt something he couldn't put into words.
How long was six years, exactly?
Long enough that he knew which compartment held Weiran's coffee beans without looking down. Long enough that Weiran could tell rehearsal had gone badly just from the heavier-than-usual way Enze kicked off his dance shoes when he came home. Long enough that both sets of parents had each other's phone numbers, and the food they mailed around the holidays had naturally changed from one-person portions to two.
The sticky notes on the refrigerator had started with “Remember to transfer the rent” and “We're out of toilet paper.” Gradually, they had become “Mom sent side dishes; eat the container on the bottom first” and “If you come home after midnight, remember to take the trash downstairs.” Beside the entryway were knee braces Weiran had bought for him. A coat Enze had picked up for Weiran the day before lay tossed in the corner of the sofa. Even the shampoo in the bathroom was something either of them bought whenever they happened to pass a store after the bottle ran out. By now, no one could tell whose it really was.
They bought furniture together, split the rent together, took turns taking out the trash, and ordered delivery together at three in the morning.
Once, at two in the morning, Enze had pounded on Weiran's door and said that the music he needed for rehearsal the next day suddenly sounded wrong everywhere. Weiran had opened the door with a face that looked ready to kill him, telling him that whatever it was had better be important. In the end, he still stayed up with Enze and revised the music until four.
When Weiran got busy with work, he often didn't leave his room for two days straight. Enze would carry food in, refill his glass whenever it was empty, take away the trash when the bin was full, and occasionally threaten him from the doorway: “If you don't go to sleep, I'm calling your mom.”
Weiran would usually ask coldly, “How old are you?”
Enze never felt embarrassed. He would only answer righteously, “As long as it works.”
There had been too many things like that.
So many that six years felt like a length of thread the two of them had repeatedly knotted together, every section tangled around the other. It was so familiar, as if they had been meant to live this way from the beginning, and so natural that Enze occasionally forgot—
They were only roommates.
Not family, and certainly not lovers.
That was a boundary he had reminded himself of countless times, and one that had grown fainter and fainter under the pressure of their day-to-day life.
Weiran finally came out of his room at 7:03.
That was a full eleven minutes later than the five minutes he had promised.
Enze had already eaten one slice of toast. He was holding his milk and looking at his phone. At the sound of footsteps, he immediately looked up and waved the phone's screen toward the person across from him.
“Sixteen minutes.”
Weiran pulled out a chair and sat down, his eyelids still heavy.
“What?”
“You said five minutes.”
“Oh.”
“Eleven minutes over.”
“So?”
Enze looked at him with complete justification.
“You have no credibility.”
Weiran couldn't even be bothered to argue. He reached for the toast on his plate.
“Then don't wake me tomorrow.”
“That won't work.” Enze immediately rejected the idea. “You'll be late.”
“I have an alarm.”
“Your alarm could ring for half an hour and still not wake you up.”
Weiran said nothing.
Because it was true.
He lowered his head and ate breakfast. The edge of the toast split the half-cooked yolk, and golden yellow slowly flowed across the white plate. He clearly still wasn't fully awake. He had only pressed down his hair twice with his hand, and it was still sticking up in every direction. He wore a loose black shirt, the cuffs covering half his hands, utterly unlike the reports outside that always described him as cold and difficult to approach.
Enze sat across from him and watched.
After a few seconds, the corners of his mouth curved up without his meaning to.
Weiran didn't raise his head, but he seemed to sense the gaze.
“What are you looking at?”
Enze paused and immediately lowered his head to bite his toast.
“Nothing.”
“You are.”
“Really, nothing.”
Weiran finally raised his eyes. The morning sleepiness hadn't completely faded, but his gaze still landed precisely on Enze's face.
“You've been smiling.”
Enze instinctively touched the corner of his mouth.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I'm in a good mood today.”
Weiran only made a sound of acknowledgment and didn't pursue it.
Enze had always been like that. He smiled when he was happy, smiled when he was nervous, and smiled when he was embarrassed. Sometimes he could be so exhausted after a full day of rehearsal that he didn't want to move once he sat down, yet when someone asked how he was, he would still smile and say it was fine, that he only needed to run through it once more.
Every emotion seemed written plainly across his face, yet he always hid the truly painful part inside a smile.
It wasn't that Weiran hadn't noticed. He simply wasn't used to chasing after other people's emotions and asking about them. One of them was too lively, the other too quiet. One could still stand in the living room and imitate the music after coming home; the other only wanted the whole apartment quiet enough that the computer's hum was the only sound left.
When they had first started rooming together, Weiran had seriously thought they probably wouldn't last three months.
But three months passed, then six months, then one year and two, and somehow they had reached their sixth year.
“The milk.”
Enze suddenly pointed at Weiran's glass with his chin.
Weiran looked down.
“I drank some.”
“Half is still left.”
“It started as half a glass.”
“So you only drank a quarter of a glass.”
Weiran was silent for two seconds, then picked up the glass, swallowed most of it in one go, and set it back on the table with a smack.
“Happy?”
Enze nodded in satisfaction.
“Happy.”
Weiran looked at him as if he had just completed some major mission, but said nothing. He simply finished the rest of his toast. After a while, he asked casually, “You don't have rehearsal this afternoon?”
“No.” Enze answered around a mouthful of toast. “The teacher has a meeting. I actually get to rest today.”
“What about tonight?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
Enze lifted his eyes, letting his gaze linger on Weiran's face.
“Why are you asking so specifically?”
Weiran had already lowered his head to pick up his phone. His tone was flat and completely without a crack.
“Just asking.”
Enze watched him for a few seconds but didn't press further. Even so, a faint, inexplicable happiness rose in his heart.
Only because Weiran had asked whether he had plans that night.
It was such a tiny thing, far too insignificant to mention. Enze knew it was ridiculous, so he merely lowered his head to drink his milk, hiding that little smile behind the rim of the glass.
That morning, they each went out once.
Weiran went to the company to handle some work, while Enze returned to the dance studio to pick up the jacket he had forgotten there the day before. The early-spring wind was colder than expected. He had worn only a light jacket when he left, and by the time he walked from the subway station back to the apartment, the wind had made him hunch his shoulders. On the way, he stopped at a shop and bought two lunches.
They returned home one after the other before noon.
When Enze opened the door with the paper bags in hand, he immediately saw a familiar pair of black sneakers in the entryway. They were crooked beside the shoe cabinet instead of neatly aligned as usual, making it obvious their owner had still been answering work messages when he came home.
“You're back?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Weiran's voice came from the living room, accompanied, as expected, by the tapping of keys.
Enze bent down to change into his slippers.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“I bought some.”
“Oh.”
Not even a thank-you.
Enze was used to it by now. He knew that, translated, Weiran's “Oh” probably meant got it, I'll eat, and a thank-you he wasn't going to say out loud.
After lunch, they each finished the things in front of them, and for once neither of them had any plans in the afternoon.
Weiran sat on the sofa with his laptop, spreading out a newly received arrangement file to revise. Besides the computer, the coffee table held his notebook for jotting down melodies, headphones, and a half-finished iced Americano. There was barely any extra space.
His room had long since run out of room for more equipment.
A desktop computer, two sets of studio monitors, a MIDI keyboard, synthesizers, an interface, guitars, effects pedals, and several black boxes whose exact purposes Enze still couldn't explain. The shelves along the wall were packed with cables and hard drives, turning most of the room into a miniature studio. Sometimes when a collaborator came over, two grown men had to squeeze shoulder to shoulder in front of the same desk.
Enze didn't have any less stuff.
His dance shoes came one pair after another. Practice clothes and stage costumes were stuffed into separate storage bins. Massage balls, resistance bands, knee braces, and exercise equipment were scattered all over his room. The entryway shoe cabinet had surrendered two years earlier, and two transparent boxes full of performance costumes were stacked beside the balcony.
The life that six years ago could fit into two suitcases had quietly filled the entire apartment.
Enze lay on his stomach on the living-room rug, his tablet in front of him, one leg bent with his foot swaying to the beat in his headphones. The screen showed a dance reference that had just been sent over. He watched it several times, tapping the rhythm lightly against the rug. When he reached a certain move, he simply got up and tried to map out the steps in the center of the living room.
But the living room was really too small.
Two steps forward brought him to the coffee table. Half a step back would hit the sofa. When he turned sideways, he still had to avoid the dining table. After completing a turn, his raised arm nearly swept into the floor lamp. He quickly reached out and steadied the wobbling shade.
Weiran's gaze remained on his computer screen, and his fingers never left the keyboard.
“If you hit it again, that lamp will be knocked over for the third time this week.”
“It didn't fall.” Enze straightened the lamp and defended himself.
“Almost.”
“Almost means it didn't fall.”
Weiran couldn't be bothered arguing.
Enze sat back down on the rug and dragged the video back a few seconds.
“This is why I keep saying the apartment is really small.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I can't even extend my legs.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And your equipment is about to blow your room apart.”
The sound of Weiran's typing paused.
It was only a very brief pause, swallowed by the music in Enze's headphones, and Enze didn't notice. He was still looking down, replaying the section of the video while figuring out how to adjust the moves when he got to the studio tomorrow.
A few seconds later, Weiran spoke.
“Enze.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to move.”
Enze's fingers stopped on the tablet.
The video kept playing. Rapid drumbeats followed one after another in his headphones. The dancer on-screen moved forward in time with the rhythm and completed the sequence Enze had been studying, but his own mind had been abruptly pressed to a stop button and took in nothing.
Move.
Only two words.
Just seconds earlier, he had personally complained that the apartment was too small. Logically, it couldn't have been more reasonable for Weiran to suggest moving in response.
Yet when those words reached his ears, his heart still sank unmistakably.
He didn't look up right away.
In a few short seconds, countless questions flashed through his mind.
Why did he suddenly want to move? Was there really not enough room for the equipment, or had he simply grown tired of this place? Had he already looked at apartments? Did he want to live closer to the company? Or—
Did he want to live alone?
When that last thought surfaced, it felt as if someone had clenched his chest hard.
Enze even began reviewing the past few months, wondering whether Weiran had changed in some way. He had more work now, his income was steadier than it had been a few years ago, and he knew more people. Sometimes he didn't get home until late at night, occasionally eating with collaborators. A female singer had even called at eleven a few nights ago. It had only been to confirm work details, and Enze had clearly heard the entire conversation from beside him.
He knew it had only been a work call.
He knew everything.
But that unreasonable sourness in his heart still quietly surfaced whenever he thought about it.
What if Weiran really wanted to live alone?
What if, one day, he wanted to live with someone he loved?
They were already twenty-eight. Their work was gradually becoming stable, and their incomes were enough to afford a better place. They were long past the age when they had to split rent with friends just to get by. It was perfectly normal for Weiran to want a home of his own, or even to begin a relationship.
Who lived with a roommate for their entire life?
The tightness in his chest became clearer, like something heavy pressing down on it. It wasn't painful enough to stop him from breathing, but it made every breath feel slightly uneven.
Enze lowered his head, paused the video, and only then removed one earbud.
When he looked up, he was already smiling as usual.
It was his most familiar reaction.
Whenever he didn't know how to face something, he smiled first.
“Have you decided where you want to move?”
Weiran shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Enze answered, trying to make his voice sound natural.
“Then we should find somewhere bigger.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Weiran leaned back into the sofa, his gaze sweeping across the living room.
It really was too cramped. When they had moved in six years ago, all their belongings together hadn't taken up much space. Now, the things they used for work alone were nearly filling every corner.
“I want to find somewhere with more space,” Weiran said.
“Oh…”
Enze heard his own voice. It was steady enough, giving no sign of any emotion that shouldn't have appeared.
He set the tablet back on the rug, but his gaze remained on the darkened screen.
“Once you find a place, I'll help you move.”
As he said it, he even deliberately laughed.
“You have too much stuff. Who knows how long it would take you to move it all by yourself?”
The corners of Weiran's mouth lifted too. The smile was faint but genuine.
“Mm-hmm.”
He lowered his head and returned his attention to the computer, as if they were discussing the most ordinary household arrangement.
“After that, you won't have to complain about the apartment being too small anymore.”
For an instant, the smile on Enze's face stiffened.
It was brief—so brief that Weiran didn't see it.
After that.
Not “we.”
Not “after we move there.”
Weiran hadn't said he wanted to live alone, but he hadn't mentioned Enze either.
The omitted subject was like a space that had suddenly opened up, robbing all the reasons Enze had been using to comfort himself of any ground to stand on.
So it really was possible that only Weiran was moving.
Enze had always thought that if the words move and moving ever appeared between them, they would mean the two of them moving together. After all, in the past six years, nearly every decision related to their lives had been made together.
They had looked at their first rental together, signed the lease together, and figured out how to split the utility and gas bills together. They had spent half a day arguing in a furniture store over whether to buy a dark or light dining table, only to discover that the dark one was thirty thousand won cheaper. The two equally poor men had immediately chosen the dark one without hesitation.
They had tested the sofa together. Enze had chosen the curtains. Weiran had complained about the offensively bright first rug for an entire week, after which the two of them had gone together to exchange it.
Even when the refrigerator broke, they had sat shoulder to shoulder on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, researching whether they should repair it or simply buy a new one.
So Enze had never truly considered that moving might be something only one of them did.
The heaviness in his chest slowly grew.
He wanted to ask, but before he could speak, he suddenly realized he had no right.
What was he to Weiran?
A roommate.
A roommate who had lived with him for six years, who was close to him, familiar with his parents, and took care of him as he took care of Enze.
He could knock on Weiran's door at three in the morning. He could demand that Weiran finish his milk. He could drag someone who had worked for more than ten hours straight away from the desk and make him eat. Sometimes, when Weiran was in the shower and his phone kept ringing, he would call through the door and ask Enze to check whether it was a message from home.
But none of that meant Enze had the right to ask—
What about me after you move out?
The question sounded too much like asking him to stay, and came too close to an admission.
Enze didn't dare.
He didn't even dare ask, “Aren't we moving together?” Because if he did, Weiran might ask him why they had to move together.
How would he answer then?
Because he didn't want to be separated from Weiran.
Because he was used to knocking on that door every morning, used to knowing that another person was only a few steps away whenever he came home. Because even if they spent an entire evening doing their own things without saying a word, seeing light spill from beneath Weiran's door made him feel that the day had ended safely.
Because he liked Xu Weiran.
He had for a long time.
So long that even he couldn't say exactly when it had begun.
Maybe it was the first time he had made a mistake during a major performance. He had come home at dawn without wanting to say a word. Weiran hadn't questioned him, only placed reheated food in front of him and sat across the table until he finished eating.
Maybe it was the time Enze had a high fever. He woke in the middle of the night and saw Weiran asleep in the chair beside his bed, still holding the towel he had just replaced.
Or maybe it had begun even earlier.
Six years ago, perhaps, when they had sat side by side on the floor of their empty living room eating instant noodles. Weiran had said that when they had money, they would definitely replace the refrigerator, and Enze had enthusiastically painted a chaotic picture of that still-distant future.
Back then, Enze had never doubted that he would be part of that future.
But six years later, he suddenly wasn't sure.
Where Weiran wanted to move, what kind of life he wanted, and whether he wanted to keep living with Enze were all choices that belonged to Weiran.
Enze lowered his eyes, put the earbud back in, and pressed play.
The powerful dance track instantly flooded his head. He stared at the screen for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, but had no idea what the people in it were actually dancing.
Weiran didn't notice anything unusual.
He put his headphones back on, his fingers returning to the keyboard as he quickly sank into work again. Through two pairs of headphones, the tapping of the keys fell intermittently into the quiet living room.
Enze lay on his stomach on the rug, his phone beside him.
He wanted to ask where the new place would be, whether they would still eat breakfast together after the move, and whether Weiran had already decided to live alone.
But in the end, he said none of it.
He merely dragged the video back to the beginning, pretending to watch it carefully for a second time.
A little over ten minutes later, Weiran suddenly removed one earbud.
“What should we eat tonight?”
Enze froze for a moment and answered instinctively, “I don't know.”
“Didn't you say you wanted fried chicken?”
“…Oh.”
“Should we order from that place?”
Enze looked up at him.
His chest had still felt heavy enough to hurt, yet Weiran's utterly ordinary question about dinner gave him the almost laughable illusion that nothing had changed.
They would still eat together that night. He would still knock on Weiran's door the next morning. The day after, they might argue for a couple of minutes over who had forgotten to take out the trash. Moving was something that hadn't happened yet, and today, this was still the home they shared.
Enze pressed his lips together, then smiled again.
“Sure. I want spicy.”
“Don't you have rehearsal tomorrow?”
“So what?”
“Don't call me when your stomach hurts.”
“You'll take care of me.”
Weiran glanced at him.
“I won't.”
Enze's smile grew more obvious.
“You say that every time.”
Weiran couldn't be bothered answering and put his headphones back on.
Enze lowered his head too, but this time, the smile on his face didn't last long.
A cool breeze blew in through the window. The white shirt hanging on the balcony lifted gently in the wind. It was Weiran's. Beside it hung the black practice clothes Enze had washed the day before.
Their clothes hung side by side, no different from any day over the past six years.
Two glasses sat on the dining table. Two pairs of shoes they wore most often filled the entryway. The refrigerator was packed with side dishes sent by both their parents, and the laundry basket even held several pairs of socks that hadn't yet been sorted apart.
The entire apartment was full of them.
But for the first time, Enze understood with startling clarity that no amount of evidence of a shared life amounted to a real promise.
Roommates could separate. Leases expired. Apartments could be replaced. Two lives tangled together could be pulled apart again. They didn't even have a clearly defined relationship that would give either of them the right to demand the other stay forever.
By the time the fried chicken arrived, it was already dark outside.
Only the floor lamp beside the sofa was on in the living room. A variety show played on the television, one neither of them was paying much attention to. Once the delivery boxes were opened, the smell of fried food quickly filled the room, but for once Enze didn't immediately reach for his favorite piece.
He ate less than usual.
Weiran noticed quickly.
“Wasn't this what you wanted?”
“I ate too much at lunch.”
“You only ate half a box of rice at lunch.”
The hand holding the piece of fried chicken paused. Enze looked up at him.
“How do you know?”
“I saw.”
“Weren't you working the whole time?”
Weiran's expression remained calm.
“Working doesn't mean I'm blind.”
Enze smiled and nudged the pickled radish around his plate with his chopsticks.
“Maybe I didn't move around this afternoon, so I'm not that hungry.”
Weiran watched him for several seconds.
Enze was still smiling, and his tone sounded no different from usual. Only the smile remained on the surface; it never truly reached his eyes.
Weiran didn't press him. He had never been good at forcing people to talk about things they didn't want to discuss. He simply reached over and put the piece of chicken Enze usually liked best onto his plate.
“Eat it.”
“I can't.”
“Then eat it later.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Enze lowered his head to look at the chicken on his plate, and a completely unreasonable ache suddenly rose in his nose and throat.
Xu Weiran was always like this.
He never said anything out loud, and he looked as if he didn't care about anything, yet he remembered how much Enze had eaten at lunch, remembered which piece he liked best, knew which days he had rehearsal, and knew that Enze's stomach was bad but that he still couldn't resist spicy food.
If all of that was simply something a roommate would do, what was Enze supposed to do?
He could no longer tell.
Perhaps he had been living a life too close to that of lovers for too long, and had gradually forgotten that Weiran had never actually promised they would always remain this way.
A little after eleven that night, Enze finished showering and stood on the balcony collecting the laundry.
The wind was colder than it had been during the day. When it slipped down his collar, he instinctively hunched his shoulders. He took their clothes off the hangers one by one, hanging Weiran's shirts separately and casually folding his own practice clothes over his arm. He had done these things so many times that they required almost no thought.
Weiran was still working in his room. A thin line of light shone beneath the door.
Enze's steps stopped involuntarily as he passed it.
The faint sound of music repeating came from inside. The same bar was cut apart, stopped, and then connected again. He stood at the door for a while, lifting his hand until his knuckles hovered only a few inches from the panel.
All he had to do was knock twice as usual.
Weiran would look up and ask what he wanted. Enze could take the clothes inside, stand beside the desk and say a few more useless things, or casually ask—
When you move, am I moving with you too?
But his hand remained suspended in the air and never fell.
What would he do if the answer wasn't what he wanted to hear?
If Weiran had never intended to take him along, would Enze even be able to preserve this last bit of peace between them?
In the end, Enze slowly lowered his hand.
Forget it.
He would talk about it after Weiran found a place.
Nothing had been decided yet. Maybe Enze was simply overthinking. Maybe Weiran had always planned for the two of them to move together and just hadn't thought it necessary to explain. Maybe—
He carried the clothes back to his own room and used one maybe after another to force the uneasiness in his chest down.
But once he lay in bed, he couldn't fall asleep no matter what he did.
Only the bedside lamp was on, its orange light falling across the wall. Cars occasionally passed outside. The sound of tires rolling over the road drew briefly closer in the distance, then slowly faded away.
Enze rolled over and heard the chair next door move backward.
Six years.
He could even tell what Weiran was doing from these sounds.
The chair moving meant he had stood up. A little while later, water ran through the pipes; he was probably washing his face. The door opened, footsteps crossed the hall, and then the refrigerator door opened, closing again several dozen seconds later.
Enze kept his eyes closed and listened quietly.
So this was how frightening it was when someone truly became part of your life.
You didn't even need to see him. You knew who it was from his footsteps alone. You could hear a door open once and guess where he had gone.
What if one day all those sounds disappeared?
What if the room next door were empty? What if he woke in the middle of the night and there was no longer any computer light in the living room? What if he only had to prepare one breakfast, and the entryway held only one pair of shoes kicked off in a hurry? What if, when he pushed open the door, he never again had to call into the apartment—
“Weiran, I'm home.”
Enze suddenly opened his eyes.
His chest felt painfully tight. He sat up and reached for his phone to check the time.
12:19 a.m.
It was still early, but he had no sleepiness at all.
He aimlessly scrolled through social media for a while, checked the messages in the dance company group chat, then opened the dance video from that afternoon. The figure on the screen moved back and forth, but after watching for a long time, he still couldn't focus on a single move.
Just then, someone knocked twice on his door.
Enze stiffened and instinctively asked, “Who is it?”
There was a moment of silence outside before Weiran's calm voice came through.
“Do we have any instant noodles left?”
Enze sat on the bed in a daze for a full two seconds, then couldn't help laughing.
“Are you hungry?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You didn't eat the fried chicken, and now you're hungry.”
“Are there any noodles?”
“There are.”
He threw off the blankets and got out of bed. His bare feet met the cold floor as he hurried over to open the door.
Weiran stood outside. He had already washed his hair, and the ends were still slightly damp. He wore black pajamas, and the exhaustion from working too long was impossible to hide. His sleeves were casually rolled to his elbows, revealing slender wrists.
Enze looked at him.
All the questions he had tossed and turned over in bed suddenly clogged his throat the moment he actually saw Weiran.
In the end, he only said, “I'll make it for you.”
Weiran nodded once.
“Add an egg.”
“I know.”
“Don't overcook the noodles.”
“When have I ever overcooked them?”
The two of them walked toward the kitchen one after the other.
The apartment seemed even smaller late at night than it did during the day, yet the little kitchen light made it feel warm. Enze boiled water, opened the packet of noodles, and took an egg from the refrigerator. Weiran sat at the dining table waiting, lowering his head to answer two work messages. The light from his phone illuminated his face.
It was no different from countless other late nights.
The water in the pot gradually came to a boil. White steam rose and blurred Enze's vision. He lowered his head, put the noodles in, and slowly stirred them apart with chopsticks. For one brief moment, he wished time could stop here.
Don't move. Don't change. Don't let either of them say the words they had hidden for too long.
Even if they were only roommates, maybe there was nothing wrong with continuing to live like this.
But he knew better than anyone that no one could remain twenty-two forever. Six years had already filled this apartment beyond capacity with all the things they accumulated, and it had also allowed certain feelings hidden in their hearts to swell little by little until they could no longer fit inside the words roommate.
When the noodles were ready, Enze turned off the heat, poured them into a bowl, and carried them to Weiran.
“Eat.”
Weiran picked up his chopsticks and blew away the steam on the surface. After a couple of bites, he suddenly looked up.
“Enze.”
“Yeah?”
“If you have time lately—”
Enze's heartbeat abruptly skipped.
Standing beside the kitchen counter, he instinctively tightened his fingers against the surface. Was Weiran finally going to talk about moving? Had he already decided how to tell Enze that they wouldn't be living together anymore?
The next second, Weiran lowered his head, picked up some noodles, and finished the sentence naturally.
“Help me look at some apartments.”
Enze froze.
“…What?”
“Aren't you better at judging those things?” Weiran said. “The lighting, the kitchen, the layout. I can't tell.”
Enze stood there for several seconds before finding his voice again.
“Oh…sure.”
“I'll send you the listings later.”
“Mm-hmm.” He paused. “What area do you want?”
“Haven't decided.”
“Somewhere closer to the company?”
“No need. Somewhere with convenient transportation.”
“Then…”
Enze's voice stopped.
What he really wanted to ask was, how many bedrooms?
A primary bedroom and a studio, or would they still need two bedrooms?
The question was the most direct one, and the one that could give him the answer immediately. Yet it was stuck in his throat like a thorn, impossible to ask.
Weiran didn't notice his hesitation. He continued speaking while eating his noodles. “It needs to have a bigger living room.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good soundproofing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Preferably a room that can be used as a separate studio.”
“Oh.”
“And…”
Weiran stopped moving his chopsticks, as if he were truly sketching out the new home they hadn't found yet in his mind.
“There needs to be enough space.”
Enze managed a smile.
“With all your equipment, of course there needs to be enough.”
Weiran acknowledged that and said nothing more.
In Weiran's mind, that home naturally held two people. He was thinking of Enze finally being able to turn all the way around in the living room without worrying about knocking something over every time he lifted an arm. He was thinking that with the studio and bedroom separated, working at night wouldn't disturb the person next door. He was thinking the kitchen in the new place should be a little bigger, because Enze was always complaining that even two people standing together in this one felt cramped.
So Weiran didn't explain.
And under the kitchen light, Enze watched him lower his head over his noodles, hearing only what Weiran never said—
That he would save a room for Enze.
That night, one of them thought he was merely asking the person most familiar with him and most knowledgeable about his habits to help choose the next home they would live in.
The other understood “Help me look at some apartments” as preparation for a farewell that was already being arranged in advance.
Neither of them meant any harm.
In fact, each had already placed the other in the future in the way most familiar to him.
They simply never said what they truly meant.
The spring-night wind passed outside the window. Two glasses still sat in the living room, the hangers that had held their clothes still leaned together on the balcony, and their shoes remained packed tightly inside the entryway cabinet.
Nothing about their six years of life truly changed that day.
But Weiran's calm statement—I want to move—still left a fine crack in Enze's heart.
It was so fine that outsiders couldn't see it, so fine that Weiran didn't notice, yet it was enough to make the person who had always pushed open Weiran's door without hesitation pause for the first time before reaching for it, beginning the very next day.
Enze began reminding himself not to become too dependent, not to take Weiran's care for granted, and above all, not to forget—
Xu Weiran was only his roommate.
At least for now, he was only his roommate.
And spring had only just begun.
Neither of them knew yet that what would truly throw their relationship off balance wasn't a move that hadn't happened.
It was Dong Enze, afraid that he might one day truly lose Weiran, beginning unconsciously to practice leaving ahead of time.
And it was Xu Weiran discovering for the first time—
That once the person who had always barged into his life without the slightest hesitation truly took one step back, he would find himself so completely unaccustomed to it.