minghao blinks harshly when he realises he’s got tears in his eyes. when his efforts only produce more tears, he brings his hand up to smudge them off. he’s probably making a mess out of his makeup, though he doesn’t see what good that thought did.

“damnit,” he croaks softly. he doesn’t realise he’s speaking chinese until he hears a tentative “are you chinese?” from behind him.

a sense of déjà vu overtakes minghao, except this time it’s that boy, not his junhui. “what is it to you?” he hisses, but he chokes on the lump in throat around the end, and it doesn’t have quite the desired effect.

“i mean—” the boy starts, but sighs and waves his hand. “suit yourself.”

minghao wants to be petty, scorn the boy, but all the fight leaves him when he opens his mouth. he feels too tired to do this. they stand in silence, each one immersed in their own thoughts.

“junhui’s probably still looking for you right now,” the boy says after a long time. minghao turns his head to look at the boy, and their eyes meet.

silent, furious, knowing.

the boy breaks eye contact first. “why’d you do that?” he asks, throwing a phone—probably his—in the air and catching it. “you could’ve just told him you didn’t like it.”

silence. the boy turns, watching minghao. “i—i don’t know,” minghao murmurs. “’m dumb, aren’t i? i don’t know why i lashed out when it could be solved easily.”

he looks up, and their eyes connect again. “i could have introduced myself, could’ve been friends with you, even.” he laughs miserably. “now ’ve made a fool outta myself, caused a scene and made others worry.”

minghao chokes a little, but keeps going, throwing daggers at himself, wanting the boy to say something—anything—to berate him.

“now ’m in the middle of a hallway talking to the guy i was angry at. what’s this bull?” his voice rises higher and higher in pitch, getting more and more choked up as minghao tries to get more out.

he wants it to hurt. he thinks he’s deserved it.

“what have you done, xu minghao?” he finally croaks out in chinese.

nǐ gàn le shí me ya, xú míng hào?

the nine syllables hang heavy.

the boy stays silent all the while.

“well, there’s that.”

he finally speaks.

“let’s start over, eh? my name is yao mingming. i was born in 1997 in china. people say i have the prettiest eyes, so i’m very proud of them. i’d like to be your friend, xu minghao.”

he holds his hand out. minghao’s heart stumbles.

“thank you,” he breathes.

junhui finds them in a bleach white hallway, not unlike any other. just a bleach white hallway with no decoration except for the three of them. a bleach white hallway with no particular history, just a hallway, something connecting two places.

i’m sorry for not falling out of love with you, yao mingming.

“it’s okay, eh? love makes you do dumb things,” mingming says. “love is stupid. as long as you’re happy with junhui, that’s good.”

minghao opens his mouth, but doesn’t get anything out. “you and junhui go good together. i’m sorry, but i never really gave my heart to him,” mingming smiles apologetically at the approching figure at the end of the hallway, even though they’re out of earshot.

i'm sorry, junhui.

“he deserves you, minghao. someone to love him back.” mingming grins, a bit sadly. “i was never that person.”

yao mingming turns to him.

“be careful with his heart, xu minghao.”

and minghao will.

wen junhui.

moon joonhwi.

jun.

i loved all of them.