Saturday came and Jiang Yue didn't say "library."
He woke up, stared at the ceiling, and kept his mouth shut.
His mother made breakfast. Wei Chengyu left for his half-day at the office. Wei sat in the living room reading his novel—the same one about the person choosing between lives—and Jiang Yue walked past him without a word.
He went to his room.
He closed the door.
He sat at his desk and opened his textbook and stared at numbers that meant nothing.
The Saturday routine was broken.
And the breaking of it felt louder than anything Jiang Yue had done all week.
Because all the other distance—the walking ahead, the short answers, the avoided eye contact—could be explained away. Tiredness. Focus. Exams.
But not going to the library on Saturday was a statement.
It said: I'm done.
And Jiang Yue wasn't sure he meant it.
He studied alone for two hours.
The apartment was quiet. His mother went out to meet a friend. The TV was off. The only sounds were Jiang Yue's pen and, occasionally, the soft turn of a page from the living room.
Wei was still there.
Still reading.
Still existing in the same quiet apartment, separated by a hallway and a closed door and a week of silence that felt like a year.
At noon, Jiang Yue's stomach growled.
He ignored it.
It growled again.
He sighed, stood, and walked to the kitchen.
Wei was still on the sofa. He didn't look up when Jiang Yue passed.
Jiang Yue opened the fridge. Stared at its contents. Closed it.
Opened it again. Took out nothing. Closed it again.
"You've opened that three times," Wei said.
Jiang Yue froze.
Wei's voice was calm. Neutral. The same tone he used for math corrections and weather observations.
But it was the first unnecessary thing Wei had said to him in five days.
Jiang Yue's throat tightened.
He forced his voice flat. "I'm deciding."
Wei didn't respond.
Jiang Yue grabbed a bottle of water and walked back toward his room.
As he passed the living room, Wei spoke again.
"You didn't say library."
Jiang Yue stopped.
His back was to Wei. His hand tightened on the water bottle.
"I'm studying at home," Jiang Yue said.
Silence.
Then Wei's voice came, quieter. "Why."
Jiang Yue's jaw clenched.
Why.
Because someone took a photo of us eating noodles and called it a date. Because Shen Yichen told me to stay away. Because Tang Ruo told me to be smart. Because Xu Zhe told me to be careful. Because everyone can see what's happening except our parents, and if our parents see it too, everything falls apart.
Because I'm trying to protect you.
Because I'm trying to protect her.
Because pulling back is the only thing I know how to do that isn't destruction.
He couldn't say any of that.
So he said, "I felt like it."
The lie tasted like metal.
Wei was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Okay."
One word.
Flat.
But Jiang Yue heard something under it—not anger, not hurt. Something worse.
Acceptance.
Like Wei had been waiting for this all week and had finally gotten his confirmation.
Jiang Yue walked to his room and shut the door.
He sat on his bed and pressed his palms against his eyes.
His chest ached so badly he wanted to rip it open.
He stayed in his room for the rest of the afternoon.
At four o'clock, his phone buzzed.
Xu Zhe: You okay? Saturday and you're home?
Jiang Yue typed: Studying.
Xu Zhe: At home? Not the library?
Jiang Yue didn't answer.
Xu Zhe sent one more message: Call me if you need to.
Jiang Yue locked his phone.
At five, his mother came home with groceries.
At six, Wei Chengyu returned.
At seven, dinner was served.
Jiang Yue sat at the table and performed.
Smiled when expected. Answered when asked. Ate what was put in front of him.
Wei sat across from him, equally perfect in his performance.
They didn't look at each other.
Not once.
Their mother glanced between them several times, frown deepening.
After dinner, she pulled Jiang Yue aside in the kitchen.
"Yueyue," she said, voice low. "Did something happen between you and Nianzhan?"
Jiang Yue's heart hammered. "No."
His mother's eyes searched his face. "You're not studying together anymore."
Jiang Yue shrugged. "We are. Just... less. Exams are different subjects now."
His mother didn't look convinced. "He seems... sad."
The word hit Jiang Yue like a fist.
Sad.
Wei Nianzhan seemed sad.
And his mother had noticed.
Jiang Yue forced a smile. "He's just stressed. Finals coming up."
His mother's expression softened with worry. "Take care of each other," she said. "That's what family does."
Jiang Yue nodded because speaking would have broken him.
He went back to his room.
He lay on his bed.
He stared at the ceiling for the thousandth time and thought about the word sad.
Wei didn't do sad.
Wei did controlled. Wei did calm. Wei did measured and precise and untouchable.
But their mother—who watched people the way mothers did, with quiet, relentless attention—had seen something.
Something that meant Wei's wall was cracking too.
Not outward. Not in public.
Inward.
Quietly.
The way ice cracked before it shattered.
At ten o'clock, the apartment went dark.
Parents in their room. Doors closed. Night settling in like a blanket.
Jiang Yue lay awake.
He heard Wei's door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Careful.
The bathroom. Water running. Then silence.
Then footsteps again.
They stopped outside Jiang Yue's door.
Again.
Like Friday.
Jiang Yue's breath stopped.
He stared at the door in the dark, heart pounding.
Seconds passed.
Then—a sound.
Not a knock.
A voice.
Wei's voice, barely above a whisper, muffled through the door.
"I know what you're doing."
Jiang Yue's chest cracked open.
He sat up in bed, staring at the door, throat burning.
Wei continued, voice tight and controlled and barely holding. "You think pulling away protects everyone."
Jiang Yue's eyes stung.
A pause.
Then Wei's voice came again, and this time the control slipped—just for a second, just one raw, honest fracture.
"It doesn't protect me."
Silence.
Jiang Yue pressed his hand against his mouth.
His body shook.
Not from cold. Not from fever.
From the effort of not opening that door.
Because if he opened it, he would see Wei's face in the dark hallway. And if he saw Wei's face, he would touch him. And if he touched him, everything they'd been holding together with rules and silence and distance would collapse.
And their mother was asleep ten meters away.
And their father was asleep beside her.
And the walls in this apartment were thin.
Jiang Yue sat there, hand over his mouth, eyes burning, and did the hardest thing he'd ever done.
He stayed still.
Outside the door, Wei's breathing was audible. Shallow. Controlled.
Then the footsteps retreated.
Wei's door opened.
Wei's door closed.
Silence.
Jiang Yue fell back onto his bed and pressed his forearm over his eyes.
Something hot slid down his temple into his hair.
Not a lot.
Just enough to prove he was human.
He lay there for a long time, breathing through the ache.
And in the dark, with the apartment silent around him, Jiang Yue realized the breaking point wasn't the photo or the gossip or the warnings.
The breaking point was hearing Wei Nianzhan—who never asked for anything, who never showed weakness, who built walls like religion—stand outside his door and admit, in five words, that the distance was hurting him too.
It doesn't protect me.
Five words.
And Jiang Yue knew, with the kind of certainty that came only from pain, that he couldn't keep this up.
Not because he was weak.
Because distance was supposed to make things safer.
And instead, it was destroying them both.