Chapter : 5 "Stillness Won't Win"

The scent of jasmine rice curled like steam ghosts above the lacquered dishes.

In the dining hall, golden light bathed everything — the mahogany table, the porcelain bowls, the glitter of laughter. Qing Yue sat straight-backed, her hands folded delicately in her lap. Across from her, Bai Qi lounged in his chair like a prince just returned from a victorious war, his smile easy, eyes softer when they lingered on her.

Their mother sat at the head of the table, eyes sharp but content, her chopsticks clicking with the rhythm of approval. "Eat more, Bai Qi. You're too thin. My daughter has been wasting away with you."

He chuckled — low, deep, the sound of rivers finding home. "She scolds me all the time, Auntie. Trust me, I'm well-fed."

Qing Yue giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flushed, pink with warmth — from wine, from company, from something Shu Yao had never been able to touch.

The table shimmered with good things: roasted duck lacquered in honey, stir-fried greens glistening in garlic oil, soup that steamed like a mother's lullaby. Chopsticks danced. Laughter lilted. Everything was golden, glowing.

Except the empty chair.

No one mentioned it.

Not even their mother, who only cast a glance once — fleeting, frowning — toward the hallway.

Where silence stretched like skin over bone.

---

In the bathroom, the light flickered once overhead, dimming like an old star.

Shu Yao sat curled in the corner of the shower stall, water long gone cold. The echo of tears still clung to his lashes, though the stream had dried into salt. He didn't know how long he'd stayed there. Only that time had blurred, melted, folded over him like damp cloth.

His limbs were stiff when he finally moved, as though each bone remembered the grief he tried to bury in his silence.

The uniform peeled away from him like a second skin — soaked, heavy, clinging in protest. He folded it with care he didn't feel, placed it gently in the basket beside the door.

The mirror was fogged, mercifully. But when he wiped it, the truth returned in silver clarity:

Pale face. Hollow cheeks. Shadows like bruises carved under his eyes.

A ghost of a boy. A boy who loved too quietly, and broke too slowly.

His fingers trembled as he opened the wardrobe set into the bathroom wall — a humble cupboard with neatly folded clothes, soft pastels and loose cotton. He chose a light dress, something soft and airy in pale blue, the color of fading skies. It hung gently on his frame, whispering comfort against his skin.

He stood barefoot on the tiles, hair still damp, face bare.

In the mirror, he didn't recognize himself.

Or maybe he did — and wished he hadn't.

He touched the glass with two fingers, as though trying to reach through, to press into a world where love didn't ache, and silence wasn't the only language he spoke.

His stomach growled softly, a dull ache reminding him he hadn't eaten.

But hunger was easier to endure than seeing Qing Yue smile at him.

The boy who should've looked at Shu Yao like that.

He lowered his hand.

Behind him, the storm had passed — but the world had changed nothing.

Dinner would be nearly over now.

Laughter would have softened into the comfort of routine.

And he would still be alone, tucked behind the walls where no one saw how heavy it was to be forgotten.

He opened the bathroom door, stepping out into the hallway's hush, his damp hair leaving ghost-prints on the walls. The light from the dining room flickered faintly around the corner.

But Shu Yao didn't go there.

He turned the opposite way — toward his room, toward solitude, toward the only quiet that ever listened.

The cool air bit gently at his damp skin as Shu Yao stepped into the hallway once more.

His cheek throbbed—a soft, swollen bloom where the bruise had deepened from the water's sting. The warmth of the shower had only made it worse, coaxing blood to the surface like ink bleeding through wet paper. He reached up and brushed it, wincing slightly.

It needed to be cleaned.

He knew that.

But the first aid kit—

His gaze shifted toward the hallway drawer just beyond the curve of light spilling from the dining room.

There, where voices still danced.

He hesitated.

Once.

Twice.

A quiet inhale, then a long exhale that trembled at the end like a leaf on the verge of letting go. And then… he stepped forward. Not boldly. Not defiantly. Just—forward.

The murmur of dinner met his ears again, low laughter, the clink of chopsticks on porcelain, Bai Qi's velvet voice saying something that made Qing Yue laugh in a way Shu Yao had never heard directed at him.

He didn't stop.

Didn't glance.

Didn't flinch.

Like a shadow made flesh, Shu Yao walked past the edge of the room and crouched silently by the hallway drawer. He pulled it open with care, fingers nimble, searching. The dull throb in his cheek urged him on. Beneath a pile of folded dishcloths and batteries, he found it: the small white box with faded red lettering.

But before he could close the drawer—

"Shu Yao," came the sharp, familiar voice, slicing through the air like a blade snapping from its sheath.

He froze, fingers still curled around the box.

Their mother stood now, chair scraped back in impatience. Her figure framed by the golden light of the dining room. Her arms crossed, brows drawn tight. The smell of garlic and pepper clung to her apron like unfinished tempests.

"What is this?" she demanded. "what were you doing in the Bathroom, and the wound on your face what is the explanation of this now"

Shu Yao didn't look at her. He didn't respond.

He simply stood—slowly, carefully—first aid kit in hand, posture small but upright. He turned to go.

"Oh no, you don't," she said, stepping forward. "You're going to tell me what happened. Now."

Qing Yue rose too, half-lifting from her seat. "Ma—"

"Don't." Her mother didn't look at her. "You stay out of this."

The silence thickened.

Only the hum of the overhead light, and the soft click of Bai Qi's chopsticks setting down.

"I've told you before, Shu Yao," their mother continued, voice rising, "stop mixing with those people. You're not like them. Or do you want to be?"

Her eyes darted to the bruise again, jaw tightening.

"Do you want to end up like some street thug? Covered in wounds, dragging shame through my door like mud on your shoes? What will people say? What will your teachers say?"

Still, Shu Yao said nothing.

His fingers clutched the first aid kit tighter—not in defiance, but as if anchoring himself to something small and real. His head remained low, eyes half-shadowed by his dripping fringe. His silence was not dramatic. It was just the only shield he had.

Qing Yue's hand hovered at the edge of the table, uncertain.

And Bai Qi—

He stared.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

There was something in Shu Yao's stillness that arrested him—not the bruise, not the silence, not the soft outline of the pale dress clinging gently to his frame.

But something else.

Something... like grief wrapped in velvet.

Like a song sung without sound.

"Are you proud of this?" their mother hissed now, taking a step closer. "You want to ruin your future? You think this is strength? Going out and coming back beaten up, bruised like some worthless punk? You think that makes you brave?"

Bai Qi's gaze hadn't moved.

But his lips had parted slightly.

He wanted to say something.

But he couldn't.

His mouth moved—then closed. His fingers dug into the edge of dining table.

Qing Yue looked from Shu Yao to Bai Qi and back again. Something flickered in her eyes.

But Shu Yao… remained quiet.

Each word from his mother struck without resistance. No flinch. No protest. He took it the way rain is taken by the earth—absorbed, endured.

The bruise on his cheek pulsed, a tender reminder of all that had gone unspoken.

Then—without a word—he turned, slow and ghostly, and walked back down the hall. The first aid kit pressed gently to his chest like a book full of things he could never say.

The dining room light flickered behind him.

No one followed.

No one stopped him.

And the weight of what wasn't said hung heavier than the storm outside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Softly. Deliberately. A lock turned, a boundary drawn—not out of rebellion, but necessity.

Shu Yao placed the first aid kit on his bed like it was something sacred. He sat beside it for a moment, still and damp, letting the quiet settle over him like a familiar blanket. Then he rose and crossed to the mirror, steam still clinging faintly to the glass from before.

His reflection waited there—fragile, pale, his cheek blotched with violet and crimson.

He opened the kit carefully. Alcohol swabs. Cotton pads. A small bottle of antiseptic. His fingers moved with ritualistic calm, as if tending someone else's wound.

He dabbed the cotton gently to his cheek and hissed—not from pain, but surprise at how tender it truly was.

Then, unbidden, a thought slipped into him like a breeze under the door:

If Bai Qi were the one treating this...

The image came without permission—Bai Qi's hands brushing his skin, warm and steady, his brow furrowed with quiet concern.

"Does it hurt?" he might say, voice softer than Shu Yao had ever heard it.

And then—

A bloom.

Barely-there pink unfurled across Shu Yao's cheeks like shy rose petals at first light. He blinked, startled by his own blush, and quickly dropped his gaze.

He said nothing. Only finished tending the wound in silence, the warmth in his face slowly fading back to quiet frost.

---

He moved toward his study desk next—his small corner of the world. The chair creaked softly beneath him as he sat, the surface of the desk still warm from sunlight earlier in the day. He took out his journal from the drawer, opened it halfway, and began to write.

Just a few lines.

Not names. Not explanations.

Only fragments. Shadows of feeling.

The kind no one else would ever read.

> Today it rained.

Today I was invisible again.

But I still saw you. And it hurt like always.

He closed the journal slowly, gently, like tucking a secret beneath the sheets of his own ribs. Then he slid it back into his bag, deep and hidden where no one would ever think to look.

He turned to the first aid kit.

It needed to go back.

He stood, breathing once through his nose, steadying himself like a diver about to break the surface. Then he unlocked the door and stepped out.

---

The hallway was quiet now, softer, the echoes of dinner fading into domestic calm.

Their mother was clearing the table. Her back to him. The clink of dishes and gentle hiss of the kitchen tap whispered through the house. Qing Yue was beside her, sleeves rolled up, quietly rinsing bowls.

Shu Yao placed the first aid kit gently back into the drawer.

"Shu Yao," his mother said without turning, her voice tired now. "Your food's still here. Eat it before it gets cold."

He paused.

Something in her tone had softened—not apology, not warmth. But something close to... resignation.

He looked at her.

But she didn't meet his gaze.

She turned instead, lifting a stack of dishes and vanishing into the kitchen where water and soap and silence were waiting.

He walked slowly to the table.

Bai Qi was still there—half-lounged in his seat, fingers flicking over the surface of his phone, replying to some message with his usual casual grace. Shu Yao's eyes lingered on the screen for half a heartbeat.

He's texting his father, he guessed.

It was the perfect chance.

He sat—quiet as snowfall—and lifted his chopsticks.

Rice. Cooled slightly. Chicken, sweet and crisp with honey glaze. Soup that had thinned at the edges.

He ate without sound.

Each bite was methodical, each motion practiced. The clink of porcelain was the only sign he was there at all.

But Bai Qi's gaze drifted from his phone.

He looked at Shu Yao. Not out of curiosity. Not pity.

Something else.

A quiet pull in the space between them.

Then—he spoke.

"Why didn't you tell her," he said lowly, voice careful, "that you were just protecting Qing Yue?"

Shu Yao didn't stop chewing. But his grip on the chopsticks changed—just slightly.

He didn't answer.

He didn't want to speak. Not here. Not like this.

Bai Qi's voice came again, a little softer. "Do you want me to tell her what really happened?"

Shu Yao's eyes flicked toward him—briefly. They met, just once. A touch of steel beneath Shu Yao's quiet exterior.

Then he turned his head away again. Another bite. Another silence.

But Bai Qi didn't let the quiet win.

"Do you always get scolded like that?" he asked—this time, not accusatory. Just… curious.

Shu Yao stopped chewing.

The question hung in the air, trembling.

The spoon in his soup bowl stilled.

But Shu Yao didn't answer. Not yet.

He simply placed his chopsticks down, straightened his posture, and stared at the edge of his plate—where a piece of chicken had gone cold and uneaten.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

But the heaviness it left behind had not.