Diary 1: A Familiar Stranger

A few months ago, my mother called.

"Sweetheart, have you found a tenant for the spare room yet?"

"Not yet," I responded absentmindedly, flipping through my design drafts. "There weren't many inquiries to begin with, and once I mentioned a few conditions, they all lost interest. It's not like I was being unreasonable. The rent is cheap, it's close to the university, and the room—"

"Alright, alright," she cut in, amusement threading through her voice. "Well, I found a tenant for you. Remember Adrian? My friend's son."

"Adrian…?" The name stirred something at the back of my mind.

"You two were close when you were kids," she reminded me. "He's coming to your city for university—the one near your place. Isn't that perfect?"

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I hesitated. "We haven't been in touch for years."

"Just meet him first," Mom insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I sighed, letting the conversation drop. To have a foothold in this city, I had spent almost all my savings buying this apartment. The cost of preparing my new collection also took a toll on my finances, so renting out a room was the most practical choice. I had already had two tenants—one left a heavy smell of smoke, the other liked bringing strangers home. Because of that, I stopped renting to them in less than a month. I just wanted someone reliable, someone with a clean lifestyle.

So, I agreed.

Then life swept me up in its relentless current—deadlines, sketches, long nights hunched over my desk lamp. The matter drifted to the back of my mind.

And today, he would be here.

Standing in the living room, I felt a flicker of unease. It had been five years since we last met—would we still get along like we used to? I absentmindedly twisted a strand of hair around my finger, lost in thought.

I remembered the first time I met him. He was ten, with bright green eyes like dewdrops at dawn and soft black curls brushing his shoulders. His features were finely chiseled—the sharp contours of a Westerner softened by something distinctly Eastern. Whenever we went out, people would stare, drawn to him as if he carried a quiet magnetism. Back then, he would always tug at my sleeve, whining, "Ellie—Ellie—"

I smiled at the memory. Those days were simple and warm, as if every moment were bathed in sunlight. But time never lingers. Three years slipped by too quickly, and when I turned eighteen, I left for design school in the UK.

In the days leading up to my departure, I barely saw him. Whenever I stopped by his house, he was either "studying" in his room or "out." A part of me found it amusing—since when had he become so awkward? But another part felt… a little hurt.

Then, the day before I left, he finally showed up.

He stood at my door, clutching a brown paper bag, his eyes puffy, his lashes damp. When he saw my packed suitcases, something flickered across his face, but he quickly pressed his lips together and lifted his chin, like he was determined not to cry.

I leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Finally decided to say goodbye?"

He hesitated, then shoved the bag into my hands and turned away.

Inside, I found a stack of photos—all of me. Sketching in the yard, cooking in the kitchen, doozing off on the couch. Each shot was deliberate, the lighting and composition too meticulous for someone his age.

I froze, then looked up at him. "When did you take these?"

His ears turned red. "Just… here and there."

I laughed, ruffling his hair. "Not bad, you've got an eye for it."

Then he looked up at me, his voice unsteady. "Do you… have to go?"

Seeing the faint redness in his eyes and the way his lips pressed together, I felt a small squeeze in my chest. I forced a light tone. "I'll be back for winter break."

He said nothing.

I gently brushed his hair back. "Do you really not want me to go? Should I stay?"

Still, he didn't speak. His head remained lowered, fingers tugging absently at the hem of his shirt. His shoulders trembled slightly, his breaths uneven, but he never looked up.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, he turned and ran.

I stood there, holding the stack of photos. A part of me wanted to chase after him, but my flight was early in the morning, and I still had packing to do.

I sighed, tucking the photos away. It's just a few months. I'll make it up to him when I'm back.

Back then, I was too caught up in the excitement of leaving, too eager for the future to think much about goodbyes. I assumed time would pass as it always did, that when winter came, we'd pick up right where we left off—sitting in the yard, sketching, sharing stories like before.

But when I returned for the holidays, they were gone.

His entire family had moved to Australia.

I stood in front of their empty house, a gift for him still clutched in my hand.

And just like that, we never saw each other again.

Until today.

The doorbell rang, snapping me from my thoughts.

It must be him.

I took a deep breath, straightening my posture, trying to look composed.

But the moment I opened the door, I froze.

The person standing outside wasn't the boy I remembered—the one who used to cling to my sleeve, who had always been shorter than me.

He was tall, broad-shouldered. He wore a black hoodie, the sleeves slightly pushed up, revealing the sharp contours of his wrist. Dark jeans framed his long legs, and a well-fitted denim jacket draped over his shoulders. A backpack hung casually from one strap. He looked effortlessly clean and laid-back, yet there was an inexplicable intensity about him.

But it was his eyes that stopped me.

A sharp, clear green, like sunlight filtering through leaves. Something about them felt… familiar.

My fingers curled slightly. A strange feeling rose in my chest—something between recognition and disbelief.

"You're…?"

He raised an eyebrow, his voice lower, smoother than I remembered. "Didn't Auntie tell you?"

My breath hitched. The way he spoke, the slight upward lilt at the end of his sentence…

It was so much like—

My heart pounded.

"Adrian?"