Liyun couldn't focus for the rest of the day.
Mingchen's voice, his smile, his casual "next time"— it all replayed in her mind like a song on repeat. She sprawled across her bed, her sketchbook open in front of her, but her pencil hovered uselessly over the page.
What was she even supposed to draw?
She always drew things she loved — sunsets from her balcony, the little ice cream shop down the street, her parents napping together on weekends. But today, all she could think about was Mingchen leaning against the couch, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw, his soft smile when he'd asked to see her sketchbook.
Her fingers itched to draw him, but the thought was so embarrassing that she closed the book with a snap.
Absolutely not.
Just as she was about to give up and dive under her blanket to escape the world, her phone buzzed.
Mingchen: Did Yichen tell you what time he's coming home?
Liyun's heart flipped at seeing his name pop up, even for something so casual.
Liyun: Probably late. You need something?
There was a short pause, then:
Mingchen: Nah. Just bored.
Her breath caught. Bored? Was that his way of saying he wanted to talk to her?
Liyun: You can come over again if you want.
She hit send before she could chicken out, heart slamming painfully against her ribs. The three little dots appeared immediately, and she clutched her pillow like a lifeline.
Mingchen: You sure?
Liyun: Yeah. I'm just sketching.
There was no reply for a few seconds, then:
Mingchen: On my way.
Liyun bolted upright, scrambling to fix her hair, shove her embarrassing plushies under her blanket, and wipe the sheen of nervous sweat off her palms. He was coming over. Again. Just the two of them.
What was she supposed to do?
The doorbell rang far sooner than she expected — she barely had time to check her reflection before rushing down to open it.
Mingchen stood there, hands in his hoodie pockets, looking perfectly at ease. Meanwhile, Liyun was sure she looked like she'd run a marathon.
"You really didn't have to come," she said, voice soft.
"I wanted to."
It was such a simple answer, but it sent a rush of warmth through her chest.
"Come in," she said, stepping aside.
They ended up in her room this time, something that would have mortified her even a year ago. But now, with Yichen nowhere around and Mingchen treating it like the most natural thing in the world, it didn't feel so strange.
"Wow," Mingchen said, glancing around. "It's neater than I expected."
"Hey!" She tossed a pillow at him, and he caught it easily, laughing.
"I'm kidding." He sat cross-legged on her floor, the familiarity of it sending a thrill through her stomach. "So, you were sketching?"
"Oh… yeah." She hesitated, fingers brushing the corner of her sketchbook.
Mingchen leaned forward, his expression softening. "Can I see?"
Every cell in her body screamed to say no. But something about the way he asked — not teasing, not prying, just genuinely curious — made her relent.
"Okay," she mumbled, handing him the book.
He flipped through it slowly, taking his time with each page. There were doodles of her friends, half-finished landscapes, little comic strips of her and Yichen bickering. She was so nervous she could hardly breathe.
"You're really good," he said, tracing a finger along the edge of a page. "You capture expressions so well."
Liyun's face burned. "They're just practice."
"No," he said softly. "They're you."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere tender. No one had ever said it like that before — like her art wasn't just drawings, but pieces of her heart.
"Do you ever draw people from real life?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. "Sometimes."
"Have you ever drawn me?"
Her heart stopped.
Mingchen glanced up, eyes sparkling with quiet mischief, but there was something gentler underneath — like he knew her answer before she could say it.
"Maybe once or twice," she admitted, barely above a whisper.
His smile widened, but he didn't tease her like Yichen would have. He just flipped to a new page and pushed the sketchbook toward her.
"Draw me now."
"What?!"
"You said you only did it once or twice. That's not enough."
Liyun's mind went blank. Draw him? While he was sitting right there? Watching her?
"I-I can't," she stammered.
"Sure you can." He leaned back, arms resting behind him, the picture of effortless confidence. "I'll sit still. Promise."
She wanted to sink into the floor. But there was something so warm, so easy about the way Mingchen said it — like he actually wanted her to do it, not just as a joke, but because he wanted to see himself through her eyes.
With trembling fingers, she picked up her pencil.
Mingchen stayed true to his word, sitting still as she sketched. Every line felt impossibly personal — the curve of his jaw, the fall of his hair, the soft tilt of his mouth. She tried not to overthink it, focusing on capturing the warmth in his expression, the way he looked at ease in her room, with her.
She didn't know how long it took — time blurred when it was just the two of them.
Finally, she set down her pencil. "Done."
Mingchen leaned over to see, his shoulder brushing hers.
He stared at the sketch for a long moment, longer than she expected.
"Is this really how you see me?" he asked, his voice quiet.
Liyun swallowed hard. "Yeah."
He smiled, softer than she'd ever seen. "I like it."
Relief washed over her in a wave, leaving her dizzy. "I-It's just a sketch…"
"No," he said again, eyes meeting hers. "It's you."
There it was again — the feeling that he saw her in ways no one else did. Not just Yichen's little sister, not just the quiet girl with a crush, but Liyun, exactly as she was.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Mingchen leaned back, stretching. "Next time, I'll draw you."
Her eyes widened. "You can't even draw a stick figure!"
He laughed, loud and free, and Liyun couldn't help but laugh too.
But underneath the teasing, underneath the easy banter, there was something softer growing between them. Something fragile, but real.
And for once, Liyun let herself hope — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, Mingchen saw her the same way she saw him.
(End of chapter)
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— Author of 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡