Room 206 held its breath long before Xin Yu did.
She sat on the edge of her own bed with her knees drawn up, the blanket pulled around her shoulders though the dormitory wasn't cold, and stared at the half of the room that would never be occupied again. Gao Lin's bed was still made. He had always made it, every morning, corner-tucked and precise, the kind of habit a soldier kept or a man who needed one thing in his life to stay in order. His jacket still hung over the back of the desk chair, the collar slightly folded under itself the way he'd left it two mornings ago. A cup sat on his nightstand, the tea inside long gone cold and filmed over. His notebook lay open on the desk to a page he'd never finish.
Xin Yu had not touched any of it. She didn't think she could.
