The next day dawned cloudy, but without rain. Xiao Xing walked through the hallways with his headphones on, listening to the soundtrack of the movie he had watched with Nu Yang. Each melody brought back images from that night: Nu Yang's muffled laughter, the glow of the screen reflected in his eyes, the strange lightness in the air.
At school, the two exchanged glances now and then. Yang acted as always: calm, a little absent-minded, but now he seemed... more present.
After classes, Xiao Xing climbed up to the school rooftop — that hidden corner where the wind always felt more sincere.
He leaned against the railing, his eyes lost in the sky that was beginning to change color.
— I knew you'd be here.
The voice made his heart skip a beat. He turned around.
Nu Yang was there, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair dancing in the wind.
— You followed me? — asked Xiao, trying to sound serious.
— No. But when your head feels heavy… this is where I'd come too.
Xing gave a small smile and looked out at the horizon.
— Still thinking about the movie?
— A little. — Nu Yang stopped beside him. — But also about you.
Xiao Xing didn't answer.
— Did you really stop writing? — Nu Yang asked, not looking directly at him.
— It's been a while.
— That's a shame. I can imagine you writing stories just from watching the sky.
Xing let out a sigh.
— Sometimes, I try to imagine what it would've been like if I'd never stopped. But...
He didn't finish.
Nu Yang watched him for a moment.
— Maybe you're just waiting for the right story.
Xiao Xing looked at him. The silence between them said more than any missing chapter.
The wind blew stronger, messing up both their hair. Xing closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze touch his face. When he opened them again, Nu Yang was still there, standing as if he too were searching for answers he didn't know he needed.
— I'm scared, you know? — Xiao said suddenly, in a whisper that almost got lost in the wind.
— Scared of what?
— Of trying again. And failing. Of writing something that means nothing.
Nu Yang gave a small smile.
— But… what if you write something that means everything to someone?
The words hit like a silent lightning strike. Xiao Xing stared at the ground for a moment, his eyes getting misty without him noticing.
— You make it sound easy.
— I never said it was easy. Just that it might be worth it.
They stayed there, side by side, until the sky truly began to darken. Night arrived slowly, as if it too were listening.
— Shall we go down? — Yang asked, unhurried.
Xiao Xing nodded, and the two walked together in silence. But this time, it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that leaves space for something new to grow.
. . .
The next day, the sky remained gray. The clouds looked hand-drawn, like they belonged in some sad, but beautiful film.
Xiao Xing sat in the library during the break, with a notebook open in front of him. The page was blank. He spun the pen between his fingers, as if waiting for it to start writing on its own.
— Still staring at the blank page?
Xing looked up. It was Nu Yang.
— It's staring back — he replied, forcing a smile.
— Can I sit?
— Sure.
Nu Yang pulled up a chair and sat beside him. He didn't say anything else for a while, just looked at the notebook. Then, in a light tone, he asked:
— What if you wrote without thinking of showing it to anyone?
Xing frowned.
— What do you mean?
— Just write for yourself. Don't worry if it's good, if anyone will read it. Just... write. Like when you were a kid.
Xiao Xing stared at the page again. That idea seemed ridiculously simple, and at the same time, impossible.
— I don't even know where to start.
— Start with what you're feeling right now.
Xing looked at him. Then at the page. And with trembling hands, he began to write the first sentence. Just one. But it was there.
Nu Yang gave a small smile, silently. And at that moment, even without saying a word, he was the support Xiao Xing didn't know he needed.
. . .
Later, after school, Xing walked home with his headphones on. The movie's soundtrack was still on loop. Each step felt lighter than the last. As if, for some reason, something inside him was starting to move again.
As he passed a newsstand, he stopped. There was a special edition on Asian cinema. On the cover, a small interview with Renji Kamaki. He bought it without thinking twice.
At home, he lay on his bed and opened the magazine. The director's words hit him in a strange way:
"Every movie I make starts with an absence. It's what's missing that makes me create."
He read and reread those words. It felt like they had been written for him.
. . .
The next morning, Xiao Xing arrived at school early. Earlier than usual.
He passed the classroom, climbed the stairs, and went straight to the rooftop. The sky was clear this time, with a soft shade of blue that looked freshly painted. He sat on the ground, notebook on his lap.
And he wrote.
Not out of obligation. Not to impress.
He wrote about the smell of jasmine tea. About the sound of the wind hitting the windows. About a pink-haired boy who dreamed of becoming a writer, but lost his way.
And about another boy, who with a calm smile and a few words, helped the first remember what it was like to feel.
He only stopped writing when he heard footsteps.
Of course it was Nu Yang.
— Came early. Thought you might be here.
Xiao Xing smiled.
— Was I right?
— You were.
Nu Yang sat beside him and looked at the notebook.
— You wrote?
— About five pages.
— And?
— I… liked it.
— Then it was a good start.
— Or a good restart.
Yang stayed silent, but nodded.
After a few minutes, Xiao Xing gently closed the notebook.
— Remember that question you asked me on the rooftop?
— Which one?
— About why I stopped writing.
Nu Yang just waited.
— I think, actually, I never really stopped. I just... paused. Like a story waiting for the next chapter.
Yang looked at him sideways.
— And now?
— Now… I think I'm ready to continue.
— With me in the cast?
Xiao Xing laughed.
— You could be the mysterious character who only shows up now and then but changes everything when he does.
— The scene-stealer?
— Maybe.
They looked at each other a second longer than usual. And in that glance, without needing a single word, there was something new. Something without a name.
But it was there.
. . .
After school, Nu Yang pushed his bike with one hand as he walked alongside Xiao Xing down the sidewalk.
— Are you going to write more today?
— Maybe. If the mysterious character lets me.
— I can show up as special inspiration.
— You already are.
Nu Yang turned his face slightly, hiding a small smile.
— What kind of story do you think this is?
— Ours?
— Yeah.
Xing thought for a few seconds.
— For now, a story of reunion.
— Even though we were never apart?
— Even so. Sometimes, we reunite even while being close.
Yang looked at him sideways, as if he understood exactly what he meant.
— I like that idea.
And the two kept walking, under the clear sky, as if the world was finally making space for the next chapter.