Ruoqing woke up because of the sun.
She'd forgotten to close the curtains. Light came straight through the window and hit her face, sharp enough to make her frown. She rolled over, and her arm bumped into something warm.
Ranhua.
Sometime in the night she'd migrated over, curled into a ball, taking up two-thirds of the bed, hair wrecked like a bird's nest, mouth slightly open, breathing shallow. Ruoqing's arm had been pinned under her for most of the night and had gone completely numb.
She slowly pulled her arm free and shook it out. The pins and needles shot up from her fingertips.
She picked up her phone and checked the time—12:17.
Saturday. Whatever.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then got up and went to the bathroom to wash her face. The person in the mirror had faint shadows under her eyes, and her hair was smashed flat on one side and sticking up on the other. She smoothed it down with water and didn't look any longer than she had to.
When she came out, Ranhua was still asleep.
Ruoqing stood by the bed and looked at her for two seconds, then grabbed her keys and left.
The breakfast place at the end of the alley had technically switched to the lunch menu, but the owner was easygoing. When Ruoqing said she wanted two egg crepes and a large iced milk tea, the woman just smiled and said, "Sure, give me a minute."
Ruoqing waited under the covered walkway and lit a cigarette.
The alley was quiet on a Saturday afternoon. A few scooters were parked along the curb. An orange cat was sprawled on the seat of one of them, asleep. The sun was bright but the wind was cool, carrying the smell of braised pork ribs from the self-serve place next door.
She'd smoked halfway through when the food was ready.
She carried the plastic bag home, swinging lightly in her hand, and climbed the four flights back up.
When she opened the door, Ranhua was already awake.
She was sitting up in bed, hair still a mess, eyes half-shut, hugging a pillow. She looked like an animal that had just crawled out of hibernation.
"What time is it…"
"Twelve-thirty."
"God." Ranhua buried her face in the pillow and said, muffled, "How long has it been since I slept past noon."
Ruoqing set the plastic bag on the coffee table and opened it. The warm, oily smell of egg crepes drifted out. Ranhua's nose twitched like something had tugged at it, and she padded over barefoot and settled cross-legged on the couch.
"Egg crepes!"
"Eat."
Ranhua opened the foam takeout box. Inside was a corn egg crepe, cut into four pieces, sauce drizzled just right. She picked up a piece and took a big bite, eyes squinting shut, making a low, muffled "mmm."
Ruoqing sat down beside her and opened her own box—plain egg crepe. She ate quietly, small bites, washing it down with the iced milk tea.
"How'd you know I wanted corn?" Ranhua asked, mouth still full.
"You've been ordering corn egg crepes since middle school."
Ranhua blinked, then laughed, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"Lin Ruoqing, you are such a weird person. You walk around with a face like you hate everyone, and then you remember stuff like that."
"I didn't remember. You order the same thing every time."
"That's still remembering."
Ruoqing didn't answer. She took a sip of her milk tea.
They ate in silence. Sunlight came through the window and laid a warm tint over the plastic bag and foam boxes on the coffee table. Ranhua finished the last piece of her crepe, wiped her fingers clean on a napkin, leaned back against the couch, and patted her stomach.
"I haven't felt this relaxed in forever." There was something quietly wistful in her voice. "At home, I'm up at seven on Saturdays to make breakfast because he goes into the office on weekends."
Ruoqing glanced at her and said nothing.
Ranhua laughed a little to herself and shook her head. "Never mind. Forget it."
She picked up her new phone and started scrolling—probably checking how many people had viewed the Stories she'd posted last night. Ruoqing gathered the trash from the coffee table, stood up, and dropped it in the garbage bag.
That was when Ranhua's phone rang.
Not a notification. A call.
The name on the screen was Chen Boyu, with a little house emoji next to it.
Ranhua stared at the screen. Her expression shifted in an instant. The lazy, easy mood from a moment ago froze, like someone had hit pause on the whole room.
The phone rang three times. Four. Five.
Ruoqing stood by the garbage bag and didn't move. Didn't say anything.
On the sixth ring, Ranhua picked up.
"…Hello."
Ruoqing couldn't hear what was being said on the other end, but she could see Ranhua's face. At first it was guarded—lips pressed tight, eyes fixed on the floor. Then slowly the guard came down a little, replaced by something that looked like exhaustion.
"Yeah."
"…Yeah."
"I know."
Ranhua pinched her own knee with her free hand. Her knuckles went white.
"You want to talk now." Her voice was low, a little rough. "Where was this when you threw my phone the other day."
The other end said something long. Ranhua didn't interrupt. She just listened. Her expression moved from exhaustion into something more complicated—not anger, not sadness, more like a tired, bone-deep *here we go again.*
"…You do this every time. We fight, then you call and say you want to talk, we talk, things are fine, then we fight again."
She took a slow breath.
"It's not that I don't want to come home. It's that I don't know what happens when I do."
Another silence.
Then Ranhua looked up and caught Ruoqing's eye. It lasted only a second, but Ruoqing understood it—not a cry for help. Just checking that someone was there.
Ruoqing leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression unchanged. But she didn't leave.
Ranhua looked back at the floor.
"…Okay. Go ahead."
The other end talked for a long time. Ranhua said "yeah" occasionally, and sometimes said nothing at all. Finally she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to her knees, voice coming out muffled:
"I need to think about it."
"I'm not saying I won't come back. I just need to think."
"…Just let me think, okay."
She hung up.
The room went so quiet it felt wrong. The hum of the refrigerator suddenly seemed loud. Outside, somewhere below, a kid was riding a bike. Far away.
Ranhua stayed with her forehead on her knees and didn't move.
Ruoqing stood there for a moment, then walked to the fridge and took out two cans of beer. She glanced at the clock—12:58.
Screw it.
She set one can next to Ranhua and sat down with the other.
The pop of the tab was sharp and clear in the quiet room.
Ranhua lifted her head and looked at the beer, then at Ruoqing.
"It's barely noon."
"Drink it or I'm taking it back."
Ranhua reached over and picked it up, cracked it open, took a sip. Then she leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes were red, but she still wasn't crying.
"He said he was wrong." Ranhua's voice was flat, like she was talking about someone else. "Said he shouldn't have thrown my phone. Said he was under too much pressure that day. Said he doesn't want to be like this."
Ruoqing drank from her can and didn't respond.
"He says that every time. Every time we fight he calls after, says he was wrong, says it won't happen again." Ranhua gave a short, bitter smile. "And then it does."
"So what are you thinking."
Ranhua turned to look at her. There was a deep tiredness in her eyes.
"I don't know."
She looked down and started picking at the label on her beer can, peeling it off in small strips.
"If it were just me, I probably wouldn't go back. But there's the kid." She paused. "Xiao Yu is four. He doesn't understand any of this. All he knows is that his mom isn't home, and he cries."
Ruoqing said nothing.
"My mom would say couples fight, that's normal, you push through it. Isn't that how her and my dad made it work." Ranhua's tone had a dry, self-mocking edge. "Yeah. That's how they made it work. My mom spent thirty years pushing through it until she stopped caring about anything. I don't want to end up like that."
She crumpled the label strips into a ball and dropped them on the coffee table.
"But I also don't know what not pushing through it even looks like."
The room went quiet again.
Ruoqing rested her beer can on her knee and tapped the side of it lightly with her fingers. A small metallic sound.
"You don't have to decide right now," she said.
Ranhua looked at her.
"Him saying he wants to talk doesn't mean you owe him an answer today." Ruoqing's voice was even, like she was stating something obvious. "You can take a day. You can take a week. Nobody's kicking you out of here."
Ranhua stared at her for a long moment.
Then she set her beer down, tipped sideways, and rested her head on Ruoqing's shoulder.
Ruoqing went still, but she didn't pull away.
"Ruoqing."
"Yeah."
"Am I just useless. Can't even get my own life together."
"You're not failing to get it together." Ruoqing looked straight ahead, voice quiet. "You just haven't decided yet if you want to."
Ranhua didn't answer.
A long time passed. Ruoqing felt the weight on her shoulder grow heavier. Ranhua's breathing had evened out. She'd probably fallen back asleep.
Noon on a Saturday. Just finished breakfast. Half a beer in. Asleep on someone else's shoulder.
Ruoqing didn't move.
She used her free hand to slowly finish her beer.
Outside, the sunlight had shifted a little, falling across Ranhua's hair. The stray flyaways caught the light and glowed with a soft, fuzzy halo.
Ruoqing looked at it for a moment, then looked away.
*This person,* she thought, *is such a handful.*
But she didn't take her shoulder back.
Ranhua's breathing was shallow. Every now and then her mouth would move a little, like she was chewing something in her dream.
Ruoqing looked down at her, and for no particular reason, an old memory surfaced.
First year of middle school. September.
She remembered it was the second day of school, because she only knew where her classroom was and nothing else. She sat in the last row by the window, one textbook and one pen on her desk, not talking to anyone.
It wasn't that she didn't want to. She just didn't know how to start.
The whole class was talking—about where they'd gone over summer break, which elementary school friends had ended up here too. Loud voices, a lot of laughter. She sat at the outermost edge of all that noise, like a stone the current flows around.
Then someone knocked on her desk.
"Hey, do you not know anyone here either?"
She looked up. A girl was standing in front of her. Ponytail, bangs a little too long, almost covering her eyes, smiling wide, showing a row of slightly crooked teeth.
"I don't know anyone either." The girl pulled over the chair next to her and sat down without being invited, dropping her bag on the desk. "I'm Xu Ranhua. The *ran* like in 'rising slowly,' the *hua* like in 'flower.' My mom picked it. Cheesy, right?"
Ruoqing blinked and shook her head.
"What's your name?"
"…Lin Ruoqing."
"Lin Ruoqing." Ranhua said the name once, nodding slowly, like she was tasting it. "Sounds quiet. Matches your face."
Ruoqing didn't know how to respond. Ranhua didn't seem to care. She just started talking. About where she lived, about the hamster she'd had in elementary school that escaped, about how she thought the school uniform was ugly but the skirt length was acceptable.
Ruoqing didn't say a single word, but Ranhua didn't mind at all. She talked for ten minutes straight until the bell rang, then jumped up and said, "Oh, my seat's up front," and ran off.
Before she left, she looked back and said, "I'll come find you at break, okay."
She actually did.
Ten minutes later, Ranhua was back beside her, picking up right where she'd left off. Whether the cafeteria iced tea was any good. A really tall guy in the class next door. How the math teacher looked like her uncle.
On the third day, Ranhua took her to the cafeteria and ordered her an iced tea, saying, "You're paying this time, I'll get you next time." Ruoqing paid. She thought this person was strange.
By the end of the first week, Ruoqing knew most of the people in her class. Not because she'd introduced herself—because Ranhua had dragged her around and told everyone, "This is Lin Ruoqing, she's really nice, she just doesn't talk much."
Ruoqing had never thought of herself as particularly nice. But Ranhua said it, so people believed it.
She remembered one time a boy in class asked Ranhua, "Why do you always hang out with her? She never says anything."
Ranhua rolled her eyes and said, "So what, there's no rule that says friends have to be loud."
That afternoon walking home, Ruoqing said out of nowhere, "Thanks."
Ranhua tilted her head. "For what?"
"Just… thanks."
Ranhua laughed and hooked her arm through Ruoqing's. "Don't worry about it. I just thought you looked like someone who'd be a good friend."
Ruoqing didn't pull her arm away.
From that day on, middle school was different. Ranhua was like a person who came with her own sound effects—wherever she went, there was noise. Laughter, complaints, gasps of surprise. The whole hallway knew when Xu Ranhua was coming. And Ruoqing always walked beside her, quiet, like her shadow.
Ranhua took her to the club fair and signed her up for art club, because "you just look like someone who draws." Ruoqing wasn't actually very good at drawing, but she didn't say so. She stayed in art club for three years anyway, never great at it, but at least it was a place where she could sit in silence.
Ranhua took her to the little park behind the school for lunch, because the classroom was too loud. They'd sit on the bench by the slide, Ranhua eating fast and Ruoqing eating slow, and Ranhua would talk the whole time she waited, until her food went cold and she didn't care.
Ranhua introduced her to girls from the next class, upperclassmen from upstairs, the lady who ran the cafeteria. Every introduction was the same line: "This is Lin Ruoqing. She's really nice."
Ruoqing had never felt like she was particularly nice. But Ranhua said it, so people believed it.
Third year of middle school, Ranhua bombed an exam and put her head down on her desk and cried. Ruoqing didn't know what to do. She stood there for a long time, and finally set her own notes on Ranhua's desk and said, "Look at them if you want."
Ranhua lifted her head. Eyes red, nose almost running, but she still smiled.
"Lin Ruoqing, you are so bad at comforting people."
"I'm not trying to comfort you."
"Then why are you standing here."
Ruoqing didn't answer.
Ranhua wiped her eyes and picked up the notes and flipped through them. "Your handwriting is terrible."
"Give them back if you don't want them."
"No, I want them." Ranhua hugged the notebook to her chest. "Your handwriting is terrible but your notes are actually good."
That exam cycle, Ranhua moved up twelve spots. She screamed in front of the results board and grabbed Ruoqing and spun her around. Ruoqing went rigid, like a telephone pole being hugged.
Everyone around them was laughing. Ruoqing's ears went red. But she didn't push Ranhua away.
The sunlight outside had shifted again.
Ruoqing came back to herself and looked down at Ranhua on her shoulder.
Ten years.
This person had been like this since middle school—always the one to lean in first, always the one to speak first, always taking up the space beside her like it had always been hers.
And Ruoqing had never once pushed her away.
She let out a quiet breath and set the empty beer can on the coffee table, moving slowly so she wouldn't wake her.
Ranhua shifted in her sleep, lips pursing, mumbling something inaudible.
Ruoqing watched her and thought:
You haven't changed at all. Thirteen to twenty-four, not one bit.
Still just as loud. Still just as much trouble. Still the same—cries herself out and then falls right asleep.
She turned to look out the window.
The sun was good. The wind was soft. Somewhere in the distance, someone had hung out a comforter to air, and the white fabric drifted slowly in the breeze.
She thought: if there was one person in the world who made the phrase *I'm better off alone* feel not entirely true—
it was probably this one.