The bus kept moving.
Music still played—someone singing off-key near the middle, someone else clapping too loudly. Laughter rose and fell in waves, like the road itself.
In the last row, the noise softened.
Not because it stopped.
But because it was farther away.
Jian shifted slightly, careful not to move too much. His arm still rested along the back of the seat, hand loose, fingers relaxed. Wei sat by the window, posture unchanged, gaze forward.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jian did—without planning to.
"Your hand," he said.
Wei blinked once.
"My hand?"
"The bandage," Jian added, nodding lightly. "Is it… healed?"
Wei glanced down, turning his wrist slightly as if seeing it again for the first time.
"…Mostly," he said. "It's fine."
Jian nodded.
A pause followed.
The bus swayed gently. Someone shouted from the front. A teacher laughed.
Jian spoke again.
"You didn't walk home yesterday."
Wei looked at the window.
"…Chen asked me to go somewhere."
"Oh."
Jian waited.
Nothing else came.
"Did something happen?" he asked, quieter this time.
Wei shook his head.
"No."
Another pause.
Jian frowned slightly, then—almost awkwardly—
"I thought you weren't going on the trip."
Wei's fingers curled once, then loosened.
"I didn't want to," he said quietly. "Too many people."
"Then why—" Jian stopped himself, then continued anyway. "Yesterday. After class. Chen came to get you."
Wei nodded faintly.
"He said he had something to show me," Jian added. "Not about the trip. Back at school."
Wei looked out the window again.
"…He said trips are for memories," he said. "That if you don't make them now, you won't get another chance."
Jian's jaw tightened.
"Memories with who?" he asked, the words sharper than he meant them to be. Almost childish. Almost petulant.
Wei didn't turn back.
His gaze stayed on the road slipping past, winter light breaking against the glass.
"With someone," he said slowly, "I want to remember this last year with."
The bus swayed gently.
"Who knows," Wei continued, voice even, distant, "if I'll ever see him again."
Something flared hot in Jian's chest.
Chen.
Of course it was Chen.
He swallowed, irritation prickling under his skin.
"Why are you telling me this?" Jian asked.
The question came out rougher than he intended.
Wei didn't answer right away.
Wei turned his head just a little.
"Why are you asking me all this?"
The question wasn't sharp.
Just curious.
Jian froze.
The answer didn't come.
Because suddenly—
he realized it.
He'd never talked like this with Wei before.
Not like this.
Not asking.
Not staying.
Not listening.
Why am I doing this now?
The thought landed heavier than any answer he could give.
Jian looked away, jaw tightening slightly.
"…I don't know," he said finally.
Wei didn't push.
Jian realized—too late—that he'd pushed too far.
He fell silent.
Wei didn't say anything else.
The bus swayed gently, laughter rising and falling somewhere ahead of them. A song changed. Someone shouted the chorus too loud.
In the last row, the sound felt distant.
Wei exhaled softly. A quiet hush of breath.
Wei's hand stayed inside his bag for a moment longer than necessary, fingers moving like he was checking something twice. Then he pulled it out.
The recorder.
He didn't look at Jian when he offered it. Just held it there, palm up, simple. Like it wasn't a big thing.
"Hn."
That was all.
Jian's eyes dropped to it.
For a second, he didn't move.
The recorder looked exactly the same as yesterday. Same color. Same smooth surface. But now it felt… different. He remembered touching it absentmindedly in the shop, not thinking anything of it. Remembered Wei standing there, quiet, watching.
"You—" Jian started, then stopped. He cleared his throat.
"You bought this?"
Wei nodded once.
"For you," he added, almost as an afterthought. "I think."
Jian reached out slowly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to. His fingers brushed Wei's for the briefest moment as he took it.
Warm.
He pulled his hand back immediately, holding the recorder in both hands now, staring at it.
"…Why?" he asked, voice lower than before.
Wei leaned his head back against the window, eyes following the road again. Wind slipped in through the cracked glass, lifting his hair, pushing strands away from his face. The moles Jian had noticed earlier came back into view, clear and quiet, like they'd always been there.
Wei didn't answer right away.
Then, softly—
"You touched it," he said.
Jian looked up.
Wei glanced down at the recorder, then back outside.
"So I thought," he continued, "maybe you wanted it."
Jian swallowed.
The bus hit a small bump. Their shoulders brushed. Wei didn't move away.
Jian's thumb slid unconsciously over the recorder's surface. It was warm now from his hands.
He didn't know what to say.
So he didn't say anything.
Wei finally turned his head.
Just a little.
His lashes cast shadows against his cheeks as he looked at Jian—not fully, not directly. Enough to see his eyes.
"You'll like it," Wei said again, quieter this time.
Jian felt something tighten in his chest.
He nodded once.
"…Thanks," he said.
It didn't feel like enough.
Wei looked away again, ears faintly red beneath his hair, pretending the window mattered more.
The recorder sat solid and real in Jian's hands.
And neither of them spoke after that.
But the space between them felt different.
Like something had been placed there carefully—
and neither of them knew what would happen next.