I woke up to the kind of weakness that sat deep in the bones.
My arms felt heavy. My legs protested when I tried to shift them under the blanket. The worst of the rut had passed, but the aftereffects still clung to me like a low-grade fever. My mouth was dry. My head ached in a dull, persistent way. I stared at the ceiling for a long moment and decided there was no point forcing myself to campus. One day off would not ruin anything. The coach already knew I had left the tournament early.
I sat up slowly. The sheet slid down my bare shoulders and the cooler air of the room made me shiver. Xu’s side of the bed was empty, the blanket folded neatly as if she had left some time ago. For a second I simply sat there, remembering the way she had stayed the night before, the quiet weight of her presence beside me while I drifted in and out of exhausted sleep.
I pulled on a soft shirt and loose pants, ran a hand through my hair, and walked toward the kitchen.
The smell reached me first.
Eggs, green onion, a little sesame oil. The ordinary scent of breakfast being made in a quiet apartment. I stopped in the doorway.
Xu Linling stood at the stove with her back to me. She wore an oversized shirt that almost reached her knees and her hair was tied in a loose, slightly messy knot. She moved with calm efficiency, spatula in one hand, the other resting lightly on the edge of the counter. The radio was off. The only sounds were the soft sizzle of the pan and the occasional clink of a utensil.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a few seconds longer than necessary.
“You cook?” I said.
She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sharp edge in her expression this morning, only a mild look of appraisal as she took in my still-pale face and the way I was holding onto the wall for balance.
“I cook when the other person looks like they might fall over,” she answered. “Sit down before you prove me right.”
I sat.
The table already had two plates set out, chopsticks aligned, a small dish of pickled vegetables between them. Xu turned off the stove, divided the omelette and the side dishes with neat movements, and carried both plates over. She set one in front of me and kept the other for herself.
“Eat,” she said.
I picked up the chopsticks. The first bite was simple and good. Soft egg, a little salt, the green onion still bright. I chewed slowly because my body still felt reluctant to do anything quickly.
“You did not have to do this,” I said after a moment.
“I know.”
Xu took a sip of water before answering. “Because you looked pathetic last night. And because someone had to make sure you did not try to live on protein shakes for the next two days.”
I let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. “I do not live on protein shakes.”
“You have three empty bottles in the recycling,” she said without looking up from her plate. “I counted.”
“That is surveillance.”
“That is observation. Different thing.”
The corner of my mouth lifted despite the lingering tiredness. The conversation felt strangely easy. No raised voices. No careful distance. Just the two of us in the kitchen on a morning I had not expected to share with her.
We ate in relative silence for a few minutes. The food settled warmly in my stomach. My body still ached, but the sharpness of it had dulled. Xu reached over once to pour more water into my glass without comment. The small gesture landed heavier than it should have.
When most of the food was gone I set my chopsticks down.
“Thank you,” I said.
Xu shrugged as if it cost her nothing. “Consider it as a help. Just like you did two days ago for me.”
The words were casual. They still made something in my chest tighten. I looked at her across the table and, for a brief moment, let myself believe that the last few days had actually changed something. The shower. The mark. The way she had wiped me down and stayed when I asked. The quiet breakfast this morning. It felt possible that the constant friction between us might finally be easing into something less painful.
Or so I thought.
Xu stood up and began gathering the plates. She rinsed them under the tap with efficient movements, set them in the rack, and wiped her hands on a towel. Then she turned back to face me, and her expression had shifted into something more serious.
“I am going to start a part-time job,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
“A part-time job,” she repeated. “Evenings and weekends. Enough hours to cover my own expenses.”
“Why?” I asked.
“So I can stop relying on Dad’s money.” She said it evenly, without heat. “The credit cards, the allowance, the condition about coming back here every night. I do not want it anymore. If I earn my own money I can make my own decisions.”
I stared at her. The meaning settled slowly and unpleasantly. If she no longer needed the allowance, the rule that forced us to share this apartment would lose its power. She would be free to leave. Free to find another place. Free to put real distance between us again.
“You do not have to do that,” I said.
“I want to.”
“Linling.”
“I already sent the application last night.” She picked up her bag from the chair where it had been waiting. “Interview is tomorrow. I will handle the rest.”
She set a small container of leftover breakfast in front of me, as if the practical gesture could soften the rest of what she had just announced. Then she walked toward the door.
“Eat the rest when you can,” she said without looking back. “You still look weak.”
The door opened and closed. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.
I remained seated at the table with the half-finished glass of water and the container she had left behind. The kitchen still smelled of the food she had cooked. The chair she had sat in was still slightly pushed out from the table. Everything looked ordinary and calm.
Yet the few soft days I had just spent with her suddenly felt fragile.
The quiet morning, the shared breakfast, the brief sense that something between us might be repairing itself, all of it began to slip toward an ending I had not seen coming. If she no longer needed the money, she no longer needed to return here every night. The apartment would become optional. My presence would become optional.
I rested my elbows on the table and pressed my fingers against my eyes.
The weakness from the rut was still there, but a different kind of heaviness had joined it. I had allowed myself to believe, for a very short while, that the distance might be closing. Now it felt as if Xu had simply found a cleaner way to open it again.
The leftover food cooled in front of me. I did not eat it.