Chapter Text
The umbrella remains above them, rain gathering against its surface in soft, uneven patterns, blurring the light overhead. Up close, everything feels quieter, as though the sound has been pulled inward into the small space they share. Xinlong registers, slowly, just how close Geonwoo is. Close enough that if he shifts even slightly, their bodies might brush.
Close enough that —
Xinlong looks away first, unsure of what to make of this. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, or how to stand without feeling like every movement is being noticed.
His fingers tremble badly, the plushie slipping from his grip and falling. It doesn't hit the ground because Geonwoo catches it instinctively, steadies it, then holds it briefly against his chest before passing it back.
“You’re heading home, right?” he asks, voice soft in a way that spirals everything further in Xinlong’s mind.
Wide-eyed, Xinlong looks up at him, words catching somewhere behind his teeth. He nods instead, his fingers finding each other as he worries at the skin around his nails.
“I’ll walk you home.”
Geonwoo moves as he says it, stepping slightly to Xinlong’s left, positioning himself closer to the road without drawing attention to it, the umbrella angling with him so it still covers them both.
Xinlong’s chest tightens at the same time his footing almost gives, his knees weakening for a brief second before he balances himself.
They start walking together, side by side, beneath the umbrella. No words pass between them, but the silence doesn’t feel empty; it rattles beneath Xinlong’s ribs in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else. He keeps his gaze forward, fixed on the stretch of road ahead, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing everything anyway.
He can tell the umbrella is tilted more toward him than it needs to be, which means Geonwoo is taking more of the rain, the left side of his clothes already beginning to darken with it.
This observation pulls at something Xinlong hasn’t let himself touch in a long time. It reminds him too easily of things he would rather leave where they are, of a time when sharing space like this didn’t feel complicated, when walking side by side didn’t come with this tightness in his chest, or this constant awareness of where to look, how to move, and what not to say or say.
Xinlong gulps, curling his hand tighter around the plushie, resisting the urge to adjust the umbrella, shift it back toward Geonwoo and shield him better, or even say anything at all because he doesn’t trust what might come out if he tries.
So he stays quiet, and they keep walking, step after step, the distance shortening until the outline of their houses comes into view through the rain.
Geonwoo doesn’t stop at Xinlong's gate. He walks him all the way in, right to the front porch, making sure he’s fully under shelter before finally taking the umbrella away.
Xinlong turns, trying to find the courage to mutter a thank you, because it feels like the only thing he can offer in return.
But he doesn’t get the chance to, because Geonwoo immediately turns away, walking back into the rain.
Xinlong watches him go, watches as he reaches his own gate, steps into his compound, and disappears into his house before he finally exhales, the breath leaving him shakily as though he’s been holding it for far longer than he should.
With nothing left to do outside, Xinlong lets himself into his house, kicking his damp shoes off at the entryway. The quiet inside feels welcoming, a huge contrast to the cacophony of the carnival and the rain.
Walking further in, he finds his parents on the couch, right in front of the television. His mum is already asleep, curled comfortably against his dad, who has one arm draped around her shoulders, his attention split between the screen and the doorway where Xinlong now stands.
“You’re back,” his dad says, turning his head slightly to get a better look at him. “How was the carnival? Did you have fun?”
“It was good,” Xinlong replies, the answer coming out a little unenthusiastic even as he forces a small smile.
His dad narrows his eyes, studying him for a moment with a perceptiveness in his gaze. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Xinlong nods quickly. “I’m just cold. I think I’ll take a hot bath.”
His dad hums softly, adjusting his body but doing it gently so he doesn’t wake his mum.
“Do you need anything? Dinner? Hot chocolate?”
“No, I’m okay,” Xinlong says, softer this time, trying to sound a whole lot more convincing than earlier, more convincing than he feels. “I’ll head to bed now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” his dad calls after him, turning his attention back to the television as Xinlong heads down the hallway toward his room.
He moves through a shower quickly, the rush of water against his skin doing little to calm the restlessness still sitting in his chest, after which he dries his hair and changes into comfortable pyjamas.
Reaching for his phone from the side table, he switches off the lamp and slips beneath the covers, pulling the duvet up around himself as though the warmth might be enough to ground him.
Sleep is definitely in order and should come easily after a day like this, but it proves elusive. His mind becomes a beehive of thoughts, refusing to quiet no matter how many times he shuts his eyes and tries to will himself into rest. He turns onto one side, then the other, shifting beneath the covers in search of a position that might lull him faster to sleep, but nothing holds for long.
Geonwoo keeps returning to his mind, plaguing him increasingly as everything from tonight replays in fragments that refuse to stay in order. The ticket Junseo handed him so casually. The slow ascent of the Ferris wheel. The silence that stretched between them, thick and unbroken. The way neither of them had looked away. The way his pounding heartbeat had refused to even out no matter how much he tried to ignore it. And then the walk home, with the umbrella tilted just enough that Geonwoo had taken more of the rain.
Xinlong presses his face deeper into the pillow, his brows pulling together.
Geonwoo had zero reason to walk him home, yet he did.
It's a little off-centre for one to walk an ex-friend home, especially one they had clearly turned away when he tried to bridge the gap.
Why did Geonwoo do that?
Where had the umbrella even come from?
Had he brought it along, hoping Xinlong would be caught in the rain?
A more absurd thought slips in.
Or had Geonwoo been following him after the Ferris wheel ride?
Xinlong lets out a disbelieving huff into the pillow, dismissing it almost immediately. That makes absolutely no sense. It sounds stupid and ridiculous even in his own head.
He shifts again beneath the covers, his mind on tenterhooks, not understanding any of this. He can't fathom why it’s bothering him this much, why it’s sitting so heavily in his chest when it should have faded long ago.
In the dark, Xinlong reaches beneath the duvet, his hand brushing against tangled sheets before finally finding his phone which he had somehow lost during his restless tossing. He pulls it closer, the screen lighting up as he unlocks it and navigates to his messages, scrolling down past newer conversations until he finds Geonwoo's chat.
When he opens it, he stares at the screen for a long while, his thumb hovering just above the keyboard without pressing anything.
The last message he sent (the one asking Geonwoo if he wanted to take a walk around the park and catch up) is dated over a year and a half ago, sitting there untouched and unreplied to. It feels older than it should, heavier somehow, like opening the door to a space that used to belong to him and discerning that it doesn’t quite feel the same anymore.
Still, Xinlong taps the text box with the intent to send a message, the cursor blinking back at him.
What is he even supposed to say?
An inner voice tells him he’s about to do something stupid and he'll definitely just get ignored like before. But his fingers move anyway, typing out a hello, only to panic and delete it immediately.
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face, then decides to try again.
Thank you for walking me home tonight. And for the umbrella.
It’s simple, but probably the most honest thing he can manage, and for a moment, he almost deletes it too. But before he can talk himself out of it, he presses send. His hand remains against his face as he stares at the screen, waiting without meaning to.
Almost immediately, the typing bubble appears.
Xinlong's breath catches because this means Geonwoo opened his message right away and is probably typing back a reply. Relief, however fragile and uncertain, loosens the knot in his chest a bit.
But just as quickly as it appeared, the typing bubble disappears and the screen goes still again. Xinlong chews nervously on his bottom lip as he keeps staring, a little hopeful, waiting for it to come back, for anything to follow. But nothing does, and the silence only stretches.
Slowly, the small flicker of hope that had risen in his chest fades back into regret. It becomes painfully clear that none of it meant anything. Geonwoo had just seen him in the rain and helped because they lived close and it was the decent thing to do. Nothing more than that.
Xinlong swallows, his throat tight as he angles his face slightly into the pillow, the glow of his phone still lighting the space between his hands. His thumb drifts away from the messages app and into his gallery, then further into the locked folder, entering a four-digit password to access the files behind it.
All of it is still there.
Every photo, every video, every minute, ordinary moment they had ever captured together, stowed away exactly where he left them when he finally decided to accept that his and Geonwoo's friendship was done.
Contrary to what some other people do after a fallout, where they delete the other person's pictures and videos and everything relating to them, Xinlong has never been that kind. He's a memory hoarder. And even when it hurt so badly, even when the silence between them became so unbearable that he could barely function, he couldn’t bring himself to clear his gallery and erase Geonwoo from his life that way. It felt too final, like pretending none of it had ever mattered.
So instead, he hid it, painstakingly moving everything here. Out of sight but not gone. Tucked away in a place he wouldn’t have to see every day, but could still return to whenever he missed what they had.
Back then, he visited the locked folder often. More often than he’d ever admit, scrolling through pictures late into the night, replaying videos on loop, lingering on frames that didn’t seem like much at the time they were taken but now felt weightier, like they carried more meaning than he knew what to do with.
But time passed, as it always does, and gradually, the sharpness of how he initially felt began to dull as he adjusted to life without Geonwoo. He stopped checking as much. Days slipped into weeks, weeks into months, and eventually the folder became something he knew was there without needing to open it. Even when he changed phones, he made sure to transfer all the files over, because no matter how much distance had grown between them, these were still the only pieces of that part of his life he had left.
Now he’s here again, staring at these memories. pretending his heart isn’t breaking all over again from Geonwoo's absence.
Xinlong begins to scroll through the folder, a quiet breath leaving him every now and then when something catches him off guard. Some memories make him huff out a small laugh, while others make his thumb slow, hovering a second longer before moving on.
There are photos from before they even owned phones, taken by their parents who probably didn’t think much of them at the time. Play dates that stretched into evenings, badly arranged tea parties, and school events where they always ended up beside each other in every frame, never by chance, but by conscious choice.
There are also several pictures of them on their bicycles, him at age five, Geonwoo at six. Xinlong had just gotten his as a birthday present, and Geonwoo was trying to teach him how to ride so they could terrorise the block together. In one, Xinlong is on the ground, upset, face scrunched up mid-cry, while Geonwoo stands beside him, pointing and laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
Xinlong remembers that day because he tried riding without his training wheels for the first time after weeks or practice. He remembers being embarrassed, remembers Geonwoo crouching down a few seconds later, brushing the dirt off his sleeve, and telling him to try again because falling was part of the learning process.
There are pictures from summer camp and school trips. Always together, like there had never been a version of things where one existed without the other.
And then the later ones.
The ones they took themselves.
After they both got their own phones, they practically turned into each other’s photographer and muse alike, capturing everything, taking candid shots of even the moments that didn’t seem worth keeping at the time.
Blurry videos. Quick pictures taken in between conversations. Xinlong across a table, unaware he’s being filmed. Geonwoo mid-laugh, head tipped back, eyes crinkled in a way Xinlong used to tease him about. Friendship bracelets looped loosely around their wrists. Birthday cakes with candles half melted. Matching outfits neither of them admitted were planned.
And that one particular video at the beach, the two of them crouched in the sand, writing their names side by side, drawing a heart around it, promising never to let anything come between them. Xinlong remembers that day more vividly than anything else, the way neither of them moved when the tide started creeping closer. They just watched it come in until the water washed everything away.
His eyes sting, his vision beginning to blur, the screen in his hands losing its clarity as the ache in his chest deepens and becomes harder to ignore. He blinks, and the tears that had gathered spill over, dampening the fabric beneath as he buries his face fully into the pillow.
Even though he knows he's crying, he makes no move to wipe his face.
Because somewhere between the laughter frozen in those memories and the way his chest aches now, Xinlong realises he isn’t just missing a friendship that ended.
He's missing Geonwoo, the way he used to look at him, and the way everything felt better when it was the two of them.
This acceptance lodges itself deep in his chest, and Xinlong doesn’t follow it any further. He just lies there and lets it hurt, questioning where he stands in Geonwoo's life now.
.
.
After a short while, he reaches for his phone again, taps Jiahao’s contact and lifts it to his ear, curling in on himself as the line rings.
It barely gets past the first before Jiahao picks up.
“Hey, did you get home safe?” His voice is bright at first, but falters immediately he hears the sniffle.
“Xinlong? Are you okay?” he asks, concern bleeding through.
Xinlong’s breath catches as another wave of tears rises.
“Hao…” his voice breaks around the name, uneven and strained. “What do I do?” He swallows, but it doesn’t help.
“What do I do if he leaves and we never fix this?” The words come out rushed now, tripping over each other. “I don’t even know what broke. If I knew, I would’ve tried to fix it already. I would’ve done something.”
His fingers curl tighter into the fabric of the duvet. “I just—” he exhales shakily, the words catching again. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”
Jiahao doesn’t interrupt. He makes sure to stay attentive on the other end of the line, letting Xinlong speak and unravel at his own pace without rushing him through it.
And once Xinlong starts, it’s hard to stop. The words come easier after that, spilling out in uneven pieces as he talks about everything, about the fair, the Ferris wheel, the silence that stretched too long and the walk home that felt heavier than it should have. He talks about all of his saved memories, and how none of it feels like it’s in the past no matter how much time has passed.
By the time he trails off, his voice has gone quieter and the tears have stopped. His breathing is still uneven, but no longer breaking apart.
There’s silence on the other end.
For a second, Xinlong thinks the call dropped or that Jiahao stepped away, not knowing what to say. But then he hears him exhale, long and quiet, before he speaks.
“Xinlong,” Jiahao starts, and there’s no teasing in his voice this time, none of the usual lightness he carries so easily. “Listen to me.”
Something in that tone makes Xinlong go still.
“You’re in love with him.”
Xinlong’s breath stutters, like the words knocked the air out of his lungs with zero cushioning whatsoever.
“What?” he manages, barely.
“You’re in love with Geonwoo,” Jiahao repeats, slower this time, like he needs Xinlong to really hear it, and not brush past it or twist it into something easier. “That’s why it hurts like this.”
Xinlong shakes his head instinctively even though Jiahao can’t see him, speaking a little too fast and too sharply as he tries to counter. “No, I— that’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” Jiahao cuts in, not harsh, but firm in a way that doesn’t leave much room to hide. “If this was just about losing a friend, it wouldn’t be tearing you apart like this after all this time.”
Xinlong’s fingers tighten around his phone, his pulse climbing so fast he can feel it in his throat.
“You’re not just upset about what happened back then,” Jiahao continues softly but no less certain. “You’re panicking because you might lose him for good, and you don’t even understand what he means to you yet.”
Biting hard on the inside of his mouth, Xinlong stares into the dark like he’s trying to find an entity there to argue with.
He should say something. He should push back, say Jiahao’s wrong, say he’s overthinking it again, say anything that puts this back into a shape he understands. But nothing comes. Because the more he tries to deny it, the harder it is to ignore the way his chest reacts to the words, like they’ve finally brushed against a feeling that had been lying dormant all along.
“You’ve probably felt this for a long time,” Jiahao adds after a moment, like he’s piecing it together out loud. “You just didn’t realise it was love.”
Jiahao’s last words don’t leave immediately. They stay, suspended somewhere between them, even after the line goes quiet again, even after Xinlong realises neither of them is speaking anymore.
There's a small part of him that hopes Jiahao would say something else, soften the blow, or take the words back entirely. But nothing follows. Just the faint sound of breathing on the other end, like he’s giving Xinlong room to do whatever he needs to with it.
Xinlong stares into the dark, the ceiling above him barely visible. His thoughts are no longer moving in the frantic, scattered way they had been earlier, but they're not quite settled either, just… caught.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, the words quieter than he expects, like they’ve been pulled out of him rather than spoken on purpose. “I don’t know if that’s what this is.”
It doesn’t sound convincing, even to him.
On the other end, Jiahao hums softly. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight. Just don’t lie to yourself about it.”
Xinlong doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t know how to.
He shifts slightly beneath the covers instead, turning onto his back, the duvet pulled up to his chin as he presses the phone closer to his ear, like Jiahao's presence on the other end is the only thing keeping him from drifting too far into his own head.
They stay like that for a while, just existing in companionable silence until Xinlong eventually finds his voice.
“I think I’ll try to sleep,” he says, the words coming out with thick tiredness.
“Yeah,” Jiahao replies, just as quietly. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Good nights are exchanged and they end the call. Xinlong lowers his phone slowly, letting it rest against his chest briefly before placing it back on the bedside table.
Silence returns, and with it come thoughts, both recurring and new, warring for dominance in his head.
“You’re in love with him.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, but the words don’t go away. They keep ringing in his head, cutting through everything else until he can’t push them aside as easily as he wants to.
He turns onto his side again, pulling the duvet tighter around himself, his fingers curling into the fabric near his chin as his breathing slows gradually, not because he’s calming down, but because the exhaustion is finally catching up with him.
So he stares into the dark for a long time, not really seeing anything, yet holding onto a feeling he can no longer pretend isn’t there, even as he refuses to address it.
💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌
Xinlong wakes up later than he usually does during the weekends, all thanks to him finding sleep hours after drowning in his own thoughts.
The light slipping through his curtains is already too bright by the time he finally opens his eyes, telling him the morning has long since passed.
When he finally manages to stretch and push himself out of bed, the plushie is the first thing his eyes fall on, still slightly damp where he had left it the night before. He picks it up, fingers brushing over the matted fur before he carries it out of his room and drops it into the dryer, setting it to run.
From there, he moves toward the kitchen to make himself a quick bowl of cereal, which he shovels down just as fast, barely stopping to breathe between mouthfuls until only a few soggy flakes remain. On his way back, he stops by his parents’ room, leaning lightly against the doorframe as he greets them, exchanging a few words that don’t go very far but feel grounding in their normalcy. His mum asks if he slept well, he says yes. His dad reminds him about something trivial he had forgotten, Xinlong nods, promising he’ll get to it later, then leaves before the conversation can stretch.
The rest of his day passes in its usual monotony, not leaving much room for anything else. A shower, errands around the house, laundry, then homework spread out across his desk, pages turning one after the other until the hours go by. It helps. Not in any real way that quiets anything fully, but just enough that his thoughts don’t spiral the way they had the night before. Just enough that he can move from one task to the next without stopping too long in between.
By the time he’s done, the day has shifted, the light outside softer and slipping toward evening. Xinlong swivels in his seat, staring at the last page of his completed homework without really seeing it as he absentmindedly spins the pen loosely between his fingers. There’s nothing left to distract himself with, and the thoughts he's been keeping at bay return with full force.
He exhales slowly, then reaches over, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward him, aligns it, clicks his pen, and begins to write.
At first, the words come easily as he tells Jamie about the carnival, how his friend dragged him out despite his aversion to going, and how at the end of the day, he didn’t regret his choice. He writes about the stalls, the bracelet they got made on impulse, the snacks they tried, and the way they laughed over nothing and everything at the same time. Xinlong even mentions his friend’s boyfriend, how they showed up halfway through and how they looked good together, certain and in love in a way that made his chest tighten in a pang. He writes about the plushie too and thinks he's going to name it something ridiculous like bunny, not because of its texture, but because it is, in fact, a bunny, and he's not willing to go through the riotous process of picking a name when it's right there.
But halfway through the page, the words begin to slow, and his sentences don’t come as easily. He finds himself pausing longer between lines and hovering over the page more often than his pen moves.
Still, he keeps going, writing about the Ferris wheel ride, how he thought he would be alone and wasn’t. About running into the one person he hadn’t planned to see. The same childhood friend they’ve both been circling in their recent letter exchanges. He makes sure to keep the details minimal, just enough to place it and acknowledge it happened. The silence. The rain. The walk home that felt longer than it should have. The message he sent later, and the no-response that followed. The breakdown that followed after he revisited memories. Then, without really meaning to, he writes about the conversation that came after, what his friend said in response to his vocalised feelings, how they labelled it and how it hasn’t left him since.
After exhausting the front sheet, Xinlong flips over and continues...
I’ve been trying to understand myself, and I think that’s part of the problem, because the more I try to sort through it, the less it fits into anything I recognise.
I know how I felt; that’s the part I can’t ignore. I know what it was like sitting there across from them and not being able to look away, even when I kept telling myself I should. I know how my chest felt too tight in that moment and how my head wouldn’t quiet down even after it was over.
I don’t think that’s normal.
At least not for what we are now.
If things between us are supposed to be over, then none of that should have happened the way it did. It shouldn’t still be sitting with me like this, making it feel like I’ve lost something I never even tried to hold onto properly.
Although I keep asking myself if I’m just reading too much into it, or maybe I’ve been holding onto them in a way I didn’t realise until now. And I don’t know what that says about me.
We don't talk.
I don’t know how to reach them anymore.
It feels like every time I try, even without meaning to, they step back just enough that I can’t follow without making things worse. Like I’m always the one closing the distance, and they're always the one putting it back again. While I think they grew out of our friendship, I don’t think they're being avoidant on purpose to hurt me. But it still leaves me in the same anxious place, and I don’t know how to fix something like that if we can’t even talk about it.
What my friend said about love, I don’t think they’re right, but I don't think they're completely wrong either. And that’s the part that’s making this worse. Because if they’re even a little bit right, then I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these feelings, or with myself.
This entire ordeal feels like something I should have understood a long time ago, and now that I’m starting to see it, I don’t know if I’m too late to do anything about it properly.
I don’t know what this is.
I just know it isn’t nothing.
— Xinlong
Reaching the end, the letter doesn’t feel like it belongs to the version of him who started it anymore. He stares at the page, the pen still in his hand but no longer moving. He hadn’t planned for it to get this detailed; he only meant to write about the carnival and keep things light like he always does, but with everything that followed after, he isn’t surprised it turned into this cathartic and expressive piece sitting in front of him.
He lets out a slow breath and drops the pen. After Jiahao, Jamie has somehow become the one place he doesn’t have to filter himself, even when it doesn’t make sense. Someone who listens, who reads between the lines and points out things Xinlong himself have failed to notice. It’s strange, trusting someone he’s never met, someone who might never reveal themself, but it feels easier than dealing with all of this alone.
After folding the letter and setting it aside, Xinlong reaches for his headphones, slips them on, and leans back against the headrest. He pulls up the playlist Jamie had curated for him weeks ago and closes his eyes as the music starts, letting it fill the space while the rest of the day drifts past without him trying to untangle anything else.
💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌
The new week starts before he feels done with the last one.
School resumes its usual uniformity without waiting for him to catch up. Xinlong keeps pace where he can, more covert than usual and withdrawn in ways only someone paying close attention would notice. Jiahao does, but he doesn’t push for any sort of conversation to happen. He remains a constant presence, letting Xinlong come to him on his own terms, and for that, Xinlong is quietly grateful.
Avoiding Geonwoo becomes a reflex for Xinlong. Once, he spots him in the hallway and looks away before their eyes can meet, veering off like he suddenly remembered somewhere else he needed to be. After that, he starts taking the longer route home, lingering less, leaving earlier than he usually does, afraid of running into Geonwoo on his way. It works sometimes. Other times it doesn’t. Westbridge is small enough that avoidance only stretches so far, and every now and then, Xinlong still catches sight of him without meaning to, close enough to remind him that nothing has really changed.
Jamie’s reply comes a few days later.
Xinlong reads it while sitting at his desk with the door half-closed, his fingers tightening slightly around the paper. It doesn’t say anything too different from what Jiahao already told him, just written in a way that feels calmer and easier to handle.
At the end of the letter, Jamie asks if he would like a reveal.
The spring anonymous exchange is coming to an end in a couple of weeks, and they say they’d like to meet properly, bridging the gap between them and finally putting a face to the name.
It comes as a surprise to Xinlong because he was initially of the notion that Jamie wouldn't want a reveal due to the nature of how they started writing to each other. But now that it's been offered, it's a much-welcomed development, and he doesn't ponder over it for so long before writing back, telling Jamie he would like a reveal.
The days pass.
Then, sometime during the week before the reveal, Xinlong finds a parcel from Jamie waiting for him in his locker.
Inside is a neatly folded Falcons jersey, along with a few of his favourite snacks. There’s a note tucked between them, short and to the point.
Jamie writes that there won’t be any more letters after this. They’ve decided to reveal themselves at the final game of the state championship. The Falcons have made it to the finals, and since the match is happening at home, in the school gymnasium, it’s neutral ground, they say. Somewhere neither of them has to feel cornered. They ask Xinlong to come wearing the jersey so they can find him easily in the crowd.
And at the bottom of the note, one last request:
Write back and confirm that you’ll be there.
Xinlong stands there for a while after reading it, the locker still open in front of him, the jersey hanging loosely from his fingers.
Attending would mean being there.
And being there would mean seeing Geonwoo.
He isn’t sure if it’s something he’s ready to put himself through.
It’s a heavy thought, but it doesn’t push him away the way it might have a week ago, because alongside it, something else pulls just as strongly.
He wants to know who Jamie is. That part doesn’t waver.
So that night, after turning it over in his head and talking it through with Jiahao over a call, Xinlong sits down and writes one last letter, confirming that he’ll be there for the state championship final.
💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌 · 💌
Everything is loud and bright, louder and brighter than it usually is, as the whole gymnasium has been transformed to better host the state championship finale.
Xinlong stops just shy of the entrance, caught in that narrow space between stepping forward and turning back. His fingers find the hem of the jersey almost immediately, tugging at it as uncertainty gnaws at him.
He’s surprised he made it this far.
All week, he'd been excited to be at the game, but just before he and Jiahao left his house, that excitement fizzled out and he developed cold feet and a sudden urge to just stay home.
Part of it was because his fear of seeing Geonwoo outweighed his desire to meet Jamie, and the other part was because styling the jersey was an almost unachievable task. He had stood in front of his mirror longer than he meant to, trying different combinations, different layers, adjusting and readjusting until the process itself started to feel pointless.
Every version brought him back to the same place, the same awareness sitting just beneath his skin, making it impossible to wear it without thinking of Geonwoo.
Jiahao had been the one to break that spiral by pep-talking him through the hesitation until some of it lost its hold. The compression shirt he currently has underneath the jersey was Jiahao's idea, simple enough to feel manageable, but just enough for Xinlong to put it on and not immediately take it off again.
It had been enough to get him out of the house.
Standing here now, with the noise around him, people bumping his shoulders as they swarm past him into the gym, the reality of his choice takes hold in a way that feels fragile.
A few steps ahead, Jiahao slows down when he notices that Xinlong isn’t beside him anymore. He turns, scanning the space they’ve just crossed, and when he spots him by the entrance, he quickly makes his way back, gently taking Xinlong’s hand into his palms, looking at him softly, almost like he can feel Xinlong's vacillation.
“I’m really glad you came, Long-long,” he says, voice lifting just enough to carry over the music and the chatter. “Don’t overthink it, okay? Just stay with me. Have fun.”
Xinlong looks at him, the words taking a second to sink in, then nods as his uncertainty gives a little.
Jiahao smiles softly in response and gently tugs at his hand.
This time, Xinlong follows.
He lets himself be led inside, focusing more on the point of contact between their palms than anything else as they move with the flow of people into the gymnasium.
Their section comes into view quickly, marked by a sea of Falcons colours and a frenetic energy directed entirely toward the court.
Jiahao, still holding on, guides them up the bleachers, counting quietly under his breath before stopping.
“This is us,” he says, pointing at two empty seats before glancing at Xinlong. The seats he asked Junseo to reserve are exactly where he wants them, third row, close enough that the court feels within reach, right behind where the team will be stationed.
Jiahao lets go then, stepping aside to let him sit first.
Xinlong lowers himself onto the seat, his hands settling briefly against his thighs before drifting back to the hem of the jersey again. Fidgeting.
His gaze moves across the court where the Falcons and the opposing team players are stretching, running drills and warming up for the game. Meanwhile, on the sidelines, mascots are being chaotic, hyping up the crowd as a pep band starts playing, filling every corner of the gym with even more sound.
From his peripheral vision, he catches Jiahao waving excitedly at someone—Junseo, probably—but he doesn’t turn to check because his eyes are already fixed elsewhere.
On Geonwoo, who’s running drills with a teammate, the ball moving quickly between them.
Geonwoo turns just then, noticing Junseo waving toward the crowd, and his gaze follows that line of sight until it lands directly on Jiahao, then finally settles on Xinlong.
Stillness is Xinlong's immediate reaction, his body locking up as soon as their eyes meet. One second he’s watching, the next he’s caught, held there by the magnetism of Geonwoo's stare. He barely has time to brace before Geonwoo drops the ball, his expression shifting as a warm smile breaks across his face and he lifts an arm in a small wave like he's genuinely glad to see Xinlong.
It barely lasts before it falters. Almost like he didn’t think before doing it. Geonwoo catches himself, the smile fading as quickly as it appeared. His hand lowers, his attention snapping back to the court, and just like that he’s moving again, slipping back into warm-ups, leaving the moment hanging in a way that makes it hard for Xinlong to tell if it actually happened or if it was a figment of his imagination.
Xinlong digs his fingers into his arm through the jersey, hard enough that it hurts, grounding himself in the sting as his knuckles pale with the pressure. On his wrist, his watch picks up on his rapidly increasing heartbeat, vibrating sharply with an alert that flashes across the screen.
As quickly as he sees the alert, he slams his palm over the watch so that no one else catches it. His pulse feels loud and uneven, sitting too high in his chest as he forces a slow breath in, then out, desperate to bring it down before Jiahao or anyone around him notices.
Around him, the noise builds, pulling his attention outward as the cheerleading team takes the court for a high-energy routine. The announcer’s voice follows, cutting cleanly through the din to introduce the officiating crew and, finally, the teams.
Players line up along the court, the Falcons getting the louder reaction. Starters are called before both teams break formation and move into position. Then the whistle comes and the game officially begins.
Geonwoo and Junseo take control early as point guard and shooting guard, setting the pace for the Falcons with quick plays and clean passes that push them ahead within the first stretch of the game.
Xinlong tries to follow it, to keep his focus on the movement of the ball and the rhythm of gameplay, but it doesn’t hold for long.
His attention keeps slipping back to Geonwoo, and to that earlier moment that still doesn’t sit right with him. He’s sure it wasn’t meant for him. It had to be for someone else. Maybe someone behind him, maybe even Jiahao, and it just happened that their eyes met at that exact second. It makes more sense that way. Anything else feels harder to believe.
In between all of it, Jiahao keeps checking in, brushing their shoulders occasionally, squeezing his hands, talking enough for both of them as though he can tell Xinlong doesn’t have it in him right now. Xinlong lets him, nodding when he needs to, but it barely sticks.
His attention drifts again, pulled back effortlessly. He doesn’t stop looking. He doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling, doesn’t know what it even means to hold onto something like this when there’s nothing solid to stand on.
Is he supposed to admit it, just like that? To say out loud that he loves someone he hasn’t spoken to in over a year, someone who barely acknowledges him now, someone who acts like whatever they had doesn’t exist anymore?
And even if he did, what would it even change?
Geonwoo is leaving. The school year is almost half over, and when it finally is, Geonwoo won’t be here anymore. Their lives will split fully, stretching further apart until there’s nothing left to reach for.
Xinlong tries to picture a future without Geonwoo in it, and it almost brings him to tears how bleak it looks.
Everything had been perfect, really. Xinlong could not have plotted out a better childhood even if he commissioned someone to write it like a fairytale. Geonwoo was always there. In ways that mattered, in ways that shaped Xinlong more than he ever realised until now.
Starting a new phase of life without that constant feels less like moving forward and more like being forced into something he didn’t choose, because he didn’t choose this—this rift, this silence—and it hurts more than he expected. Even if it never moves past friendship and he never gets to confirm his feelings, just having Geonwoo in the foreseeable future would mean everything to him.
Xinlong shifts in his seat, the game already past halftime, continuing in front of him, the Falcons still leading by a clear margin of thirty points. The crowd is loud and fully immersed in it, but all of it feels distant, like he’s watching from somewhere just outside of his own consciousness.
He can’t stay here. He can’t keep sitting here, looking at Geonwoo like this, holding onto feelings that have nowhere to go, while Jiahao sits beside him trying to make the night feel normal. The guilt creeps in just as quickly. Jiahao got him out of the house, made sure he didn’t back out again, yet being a killjoy is what he repays him with.
Xinlong will figure out how to make it up to him later. But for now, he wants to go home, curl up in bed, put on the playlist Jamie made for him, let himself sink into it without having to hold back. Or distract himself with anything that doesn’t leave this much room to think.
At the thought of Jamie, Xinlong sighs, already feeling terrible for disappointing them since he won’t be staying long enough for them to approach him, missing the reveal they asked for. Well, there goes his opportunity of ever finding out who they are.
Slowly, Xinlong leans forward and pulls the jersey over his head, keeping his movements small so he doesn’t draw attention. The fabric slips free, and he gathers it in his hands, already planning to leave it behind on the bleachers before slipping out unnoticed to head home.
Just as he moves to stand, he glances back at the court for a final look at Geonwoo, only to find him already looking back, ball in hand, completely motionless.
Xinlong goes rigid, caught there, watching as an opponent closes in and knocks the ball clean from Geonwoo’s grasp, pushing past him to score. The energy shift is immediate as murmurs ripple through the Falcons section, more confusion than anything.
The referee’s whistle blasts through the air as the announcer issues a five-minute timeout before the final stretch of the game
Xinlong catches sight of the Falcons coach starting toward Geonwoo, already calling out, but Geonwoo isn't waiting. He’s moving, heading straight for the bleachers. Straight for him.
He reaches the edge, stares pointedly at Xinlong and yells:
“He Xinlong! Put that jersey back on right now!”
The noise around them dips, not gone, but thinner, attention pulling toward the sudden break from the game.
Xinlong’s breath stutters, heart pounding so hard his watch is already picking it up and vibrating against his wrist. He turns instinctively, meeting Jiahao’s equally wide-eyed look for a second before turning back again, locking eyes with Geonwoo, fingers tightening around the jersey in his hands.
That’s all it takes for Geonwoo to start up the steps.
He moves carelessly fast, not slowing even as people shift to make space for him. Halfway up, his foot catches at the edge of a step and he stumbles, going down hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from those closest, but he’s already pushing himself back up before anyone can reach for him.
He keeps moving until he’s right in front of Xinlong, close enough that the space between them disappears, and he's towering over him.
Without a second thought, he takes the jersey from Xinlong’s hands, then grasps his wrist next, pulling him up from the seat in one motion.
Resisting isn't even on Xinlong's radar. He's still trying to process what's happening. So he barely reacts and follows silently as Geonwoo turns and starts moving again, guiding him down the bleachers with a hold that doesn’t loosen.
They move past the rows, past the crowd, and past the noise that has started to swell again behind them, not stopping until they’re outside the gymnasium, far enough from the entrance that the sound recedes into the background.
Only then does Geonwoo slow, letting go of Xinlong.
He makes sure to stay close, still holding the jersey in one hand, his breathing uneven from the run, the fall, and the sheer adrenaline of everything he just pushed through to get here.
“Why did you take it off?” he asks. The question comes out rough, like he didn’t think to soften it.
Huh?
Xinlong blinks up at him in utter confusion. His mind lags behind the moment, trying to catch up to how they even got here, and why Geonwoo is standing in front of him like this, asking him that, of all things.
What does the jersey have to do with him?
What does it matter if he took off the jersey?
Geonwoo exhales sharply, grip tightening slightly around the fabric in his hand as if that alone is enough to anchor what he’s trying to say.
“You promised me you’d wear it.” Geonwoo’s voice drops, but it doesn’t lose its urgency. “You wrote back to me. You said you would.”
The air vanishes from Xinlong’s lungs. His mouth falls open, eyes widening, fingers twitching at his side as his thoughts scramble too fast to make sense of what he just heard.