The sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen rouses me from an uneasy sleep. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting thin lines across my face. I blink slowly, trying to orient myself to the familiar yet always slightly陌生出租屋 ceiling.

Another morning in this cramped apartment with Zhan Xuan. My roommate with the quiet demeanor and the distinctive mole under his eye that I find myself staring at more often than I should.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, pausing as a faint headache pulses behind my eyes. Sometimes I wake up with these gaps in my memory—moments that feel important but remain just out of reach.

The smell of coffee drifts down the hallway, and my stomach growls, reminding me that Zhan Xuan has likely made breakfast again. Since I moved in three months ago, he's been unfailingly consistent with his morning routine: up at eight, making coffee and toast, leaving precisely at eight-thirty.

And somehow, there's always an extra cup waiting for me.

I pad silently down the hallway, pausing at the kitchen door. Zhan Xuan stands at the stove, back to me, sunlight catching the edge of his dark hair. The sight of him here, in this domestic space, feels both right and somehow significant—like a memory I haven't fully recovered yet.

He turns as I step into the room, offering one of those small, almost imperceptible smiles that I'm starting to recognize as uniquely his.

"Morning," he says simply, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter toward me. "I made your favorite—with just a little sugar."

The way he says "your favorite" makes something tug at the back of my mind. How would he know my coffee preferences so well? We barely talk beyond the basics.

"Thanks," I murmur, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. "You didn't have to..."

"I know," he interrupts softly, his gaze lingering on me longer than necessary. "But I wanted to."

There's a tension in the air suddenly—something unspoken hanging between us like fog. I find myself staring at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to press my lips against his.

The thought startles me, and I look away quickly, pretending interest in a loose thread on my sleeve.

"I, uh... I found something yesterday," I say suddenly, needing to break the silence. "In the back of my closet. A box with some old letters."

Zhan Xuan's body stiffens almost imperceptibly. His fingers tighten around his own coffee mug.

"Letters?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah. They were... addressed to me. From you." I swallow hard, watching his reaction. "They mentioned things... things I don't remember."

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The ticking of the kitchen clock fills the silence, growing louder with each passing second.

Finally, Zhan Xuan sets down his mug with deliberate slowness and takes a step toward me.