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Chi Cheng’s apartment still smelled faintly of bergamot tea, musky cologne, and the faint scent of lemon that clung to his clothes no matter what detergent he used. Suowei stood at the threshold, keys jingling in his hand, still disoriented by the silence that echoed in Chi Cheng’s absence.
Chi Cheng had left a week ago for a brief vacation in Kyoto. Two months in a different country. Two months without morning texts. Two months without the easy banter over coffee or the late-night ramen runs. It had felt silly to offer to water the plants and pick up the mail—until he realized how much it tethered him to something comforting.
The apartment was clean. Too clean. Chi Cheng had always been tidy, but there was a strange finality to the way his things were arranged, as though he hadn’t just left temporarily, but had curated his absence.
Suowei wandered aimlessly before crouching by the bookshelf, instinctively searching for something to read. A corner of a faded paper stuck out between two thick volumes of translated poetry. Curious, he tugged at it.
It came out in a bundle.
Tied with a fraying piece of red thread were a dozen or more envelopes, all the same pastel blue color, all unsealed. His name was written on every one in the same handwriting he’d seen a hundred times on birthday cards, coffee notes, and late-night Post-its.
Suowei.
Just his name. Nothing else.
His hands trembled as he untied the string.
******
Suowei,
I don’t know if I’ll ever give this to you. Maybe writing this is selfish. Maybe I just need a place to put everything I can’t say out loud.
You sat across from me today, going on about how you hated coriander in your noodles and how your coworker got your name wrong again. And I laughed because I’m always laughing when I’m with you, but part of me was screaming with the want to reach across the table and tell you—
I think I’m in love with you.
Not the cinematic kind. Not the dramatic, tragic, violins-in-the-background kind.
It’s quieter than that. Like a window opening on a warm night.
But it’s there, and it’s constant.
—Chi Cheng
******
Suowei read it once. Then again. Then a third time.
The air in the apartment had shifted. The silence wasn’t just silence anymore—it was full of Chi Cheng’s voice. Every letter on that page hummed with a love so carefully folded into metaphor it almost hurt to read.
He flipped to the next.
******
Suowei,
You hugged me today. Casual, light. You smelled like cinnamon gum and sunshine.
I wanted it to last longer.
I’ve written five different versions of this letter and burned them all, but this one might survive. You said something so simple earlier—"I like it when you’re around." You have no idea what that did to me.
It’s maddening how soft you make me.
If I ever get the courage, I’ll say it out loud.
******
You touched my wrist today when you were laughing, and I’m writing about it like a teenager. How pathetic is that?
I can’t help it. Every accidental touch, every glance that lingers, every time your voice drops low when you say my name—it all gets filed into some secret part of me I don’t know how to lock up anymore.
Sometimes I think you know.
And sometimes I’m terrified that you don’t.
******
There were eleven letters in total.
In one, Chi Cheng wrote about a dream he had where they lived together, waking up to the smell of Suowei’s shampoo and the clink of spoons in cereal bowls. In another, he described the exact shade of Suowei’s eyes in sunlight like he was sketching it into memory.
By the final letter, the ink looked rushed. The date was from a week ago.
******
I’m leaving tomorrow.
I said I’d travel for fun. I made it sound casual. But I need space.
Not from you—never from you.
From this feeling.
If I stay, I’ll tell you. I’m so close. I can’t hold it in anymore. But if I tell you and it ruins us, I’ll never forgive myself.
So I’m leaving. Maybe when I come back, I’ll be stronger. Maybe I’ll be able to let you go. Or maybe I’ll finally confess.
But if you ever find these, then I guess I couldn’t.
And maybe part of me wanted you to know after all.
—Chi Cheng
******
Suowei stared at the phone in his hand for a long time.
Then he called him.
The dial tone stretched between them like a held breath. On the fourth ring, Chi Cheng answered, voice sleepy, the time difference making it early morning on his end.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Suowei said. “Did you mean for me to find them?”
A pause. Sharp inhale. Silence again.
“...You found the letters?”
“I read them all.”
Chi Cheng sounded like someone who’d been punched. “I—I didn’t mean for you to. Not now. Not like that.”
“I’m glad I did.”
Another silence.
Then: “You don’t have to say anything. I get it. Just—please don’t let this change things.”
“I want it to,” Suowei said.
“...What?”
“I want it to change everything.”
******
Chi Cheng didn’t remember the cab ride from the airport.
His hands had been shaking since he hung up the call. He hadn’t packed. He’d barely grabbed his coat. All he knew was Suowei’s voice in his ear, steady and full of something like hope. And the words he’d never let himself dream of
“I want it to change everything.”
The apartment lights were off when he arrived—early morning gray slipping through the curtains, washing the walls in soft, silvery blue.
He pushed open the door.
And Suowei was there. Sitting on the couch in one of Chi Cheng’s hoodies, barefoot, hair mussed like he hadn’t slept. A bundle of worn letters sat beside him on the coffee table, neatly stacked, no longer hidden.
Suowei looked up. His breath hitched.
Chi Cheng dropped his bag, the door clicking shut behind him.
“You came back,” Suowei said quietly.
“I couldn’t stay,” Chi Cheng replied. His voice was raw. “Not after you read them. Not after you called. You weren’t supposed to find them yet.”
“And yet I did.” Suowei rose to his feet. “And you weren’t supposed to fly back the same day, but here you are.”
“I’m here,” Chi Cheng whispered. “If I stayed there a minute longer, I’d have never forgiven myself for waiting. Not after knowing you felt the same."
Suowei stepped closer. “I didn’t say I felt the same.”
That sentence should have broken something.
But Suowei’s hands reached out, cupping Chi Cheng’s face gently, like he was holding something fragile and beloved.
“I said I wanted it to change everything,” he murmured, thumbing lightly over Chi Cheng’s cheekbone. “And it has.”
Chi Cheng couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t know until I read them,” Suowei went on, “how much I was waiting for you to say it. I thought I was imagining things. I thought I was reading into your silences.”
“I was trying not to ruin everything,” Chi Cheng breathed. “But I ruined it anyway—by leaving.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Suowei said.
Then he leaned forward. Their foreheads touched. Soft. Familiar.
“I’ve missed you every second,” Chi Cheng said, almost choking. “And I’ve loved you longer than I know.”
Suowei’s lips curved. A tremor of emotion passed through him, visible in the way his hands moved to Chi Cheng’s waist, holding him like an anchor.
“I love you, too,” he said. “And I’m so glad you were too afraid to send those letters.”
Chi Cheng laughed, shaky and near tears. “Why?”
“Because now I get to give you my answer in person.”
He pulled Chi Cheng into a hug, then, fierce, full-bodied, desperate. Chi Cheng wrapped his arms around him like he’d been drowning for months and only just reached the shore.
And then, slowly, Suowei leaned back just enough to look at him.
“Can I kiss you?”
Chi Cheng gave a breathless nod.
The kiss was soft at first. Just lips meeting lips, the gentlest brush of longing. But then it deepened, years of hesitation unraveling between them. Suowei’s hands tangled in Chi Cheng’s hair. Chi Cheng’s fingers curled into the back of Suowei’s hoodie.
The kiss had ended, but neither of them moved far. Their bodies remained close, breaths shared, warmth radiating between them like a current they were both finally ready to step into.
Chi Cheng stared at Suowei, still a little disbelieving, like he was afraid the moment might slip between his fingers.
“You’re really here,” he whispered, fingertips grazing the edge of Suowei’s jaw, memorizing the skin he’d only ever dared to look at when Suowei wasn’t watching.
“I’ve always been here,” Suowei murmured, lips brushing over the words. “You just never touched me like this before.”
Chi Cheng let out a trembling breath. “I wanted to. Every time. I thought I’d scare you away.”
“Try me.”
That was all the invitation he needed.
Their mouths met again—hungrier this time, but still gentle, as if they were rediscovering each other with every kiss. Suowei’s hands slipped beneath Chi Cheng’s coat, sliding up the warm cotton of his shirt to settle on his waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles over his skin.
When their shirts came off, it wasn’t rushed. There was reverence in every motion, every inch of skin revealed like a secret being trusted in the open. Chi Cheng ran his hands down Suowei’s chest, learning it with his palms, with his lips. And Suowei touched his face, his neck, his back, grounding him every second.
They made it to the couch, wrapped around each other, the letters forgotten on the table like echoes of a time before this one.
Chi Cheng hovered above Suowei, their hips brushing, his breath uneven. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Suowei whispered, pulling him closer. “I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”
The rhythm they found was slow, almost aching in how careful it was. Kisses pressed to collarbones. Fingers interlaced. Breaths catching with each new movement.
When it was over, they didn’t move for a long time.
Chi Cheng’s head rested on Suowei’s chest, their legs tangled beneath the throw blanket Suowei had pulled over them.
“You still smell like cinnamon,” Chi Cheng mumbled.
“You still sound like a poet,” Suowei replied, kissing the top of his head.
“I don’t have to write anymore,” Chi Cheng said softly. “You know now.”
Suowei tightened his arms around him. “I want you to keep writing. Letters, poems, shopping lists—whatever. I want all of it. All of you.”
Later that night, while Suowei slept peacefully beside him, Chi Cheng picked up a blank sheet of paper and wrote his wedding vows he would one day speak to Suowei.