Who could've believed that after nearly three weeks under the same roof, they still hadn't gotten used to each other? The silence between them wasn't just awkward—it was suffocating. Heavy. Like a fog no sunlight could break through.
Zhang, the once-famous Chinese celebrity, now bedridden and brittle from late-stage pancreatic cancer, had been told he had 100 days to live. A neat little number to summarize what remained of a once-glamorous life.
Angel had tried. Genuinely tried.
But trying to reach Zhang was like talking to a stone that had decided to resent you for even noticing it was alone.
"Just why are you so impossible?" Angel finally snapped one evening, standing by the window, arms folded, frustration thick in her voice. "I'm trying to get along with you. Why do you keep making things hard—for the both of us?"
Zhang's voice was calm, but his words were cold as winter rain. "You're the one making things difficult. What part of leave me alone don't you get? Let me die quietly. Don't feed me, don't care. Just act like I don't exist."
Angel let out a soft, bitter laugh. "I wish I could. God knows I wish I could. But you're just eighteen…"
That was when his eyes darkened. She saw it. The shift. The spark. The flinch.
He turned his head slowly and pierced her with a look that could freeze blood.
"You pity me, don't you?" he spat.
Angel blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
He pushed himself upright on the bed with trembling arms, the veins on his hands taut. "You look at me like I'm some broken, lost cause. A sad story waiting to end."
"What do you think?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper, not out of weakness, but from trying to rein in the storm inside.
"If you do..." he said slowly, as though every word weighed tons, "...then just know, I hate pity. I hate it more than the pain, more than death itself."
And in that moment, Angel saw it. Not just the defiance—but the fear behind his bravado. The boy in the man. The dying star still flickering in its last light.
"Then maybe," she said, standing tall, "I should be the one asking you—do you pity me?"
His lips parted in surprise. No one had ever flipped the question on him. Not like that.
"Do you?" she asked again, louder now. "Because if you're so allergic to pity, maybe you should look in the mirror. You're drowning in your own. And meanwhile, I'm twenty, with a whole load of school stress, friends I can't see, projects I'm missing out on—and here I am, babysitting a man-child who's decided to make both our lives miserable. So go ahead. Pity me. At least I'm not hiding behind it."
He stared at her, stunned. No words. No comeback. Just silence.
"I care, Zhang. That's all I'm trying to do. But if you don't want it, fine." She turned sharply, grabbing her textbooks from the corner desk. "I hate holding grudges, but if you're begging for one, I can start with you."
And with that, she walked out, slamming the door just enough to echo her frustration—but not enough to shatter the fragile line between them.
Five hours later, she returned. Her energy was drained, hair a mess, shoulders heavy. In one hand, her books. In the other, two takeout packs wrapped in warm plastic.
She didn't say anything when she walked in. Just placed one of the packs on the reading table near his side of the room.
"Here."
Zhang glanced at the steaming bag, expression blank. "I don't eat street food."
She didn't argue. Just nodded and placed it down, moving to her side of the room to begin unwrapping hers.
The room was simple—barely enough space to breathe. A single bed, a narrow desk, a wooden wardrobe, and a thin mattress laid out on the floor, where Angel had been sleeping every night without complaint. She had never once asked to swap, even when her back hurt, or when she couldn't sleep through his midnight groans.
He watched her silently. The way she sat, cross-legged on the mat. The way she ate with calmness he didn't understand.
That night, something shifted.
And for the first time since he arrived, he broke the silence.
"You can call me Zhang."
Angel paused, mid-bite. "Huh?"
"My name… it's Zhang," he repeated.
She blinked at him. Confused. "Like the celebrity?"
He nodded slightly, unsure how to respond.
"You even took his name? That's bold," she said, raising a brow.
"You know him?"
Angel gave a small, amused shrug. "Who wouldn't? Most of my friends adore him. I have almost all his films on my phone."
His jaw clenched slightly. "Really?"
She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Though… I wouldn't call myself a fan. I respect him more than idolize him."
He was curious now, leaning a little forward despite himself. "Why?"
"He's different. Doesn't fake things to please people. Stood his ground. Sure, people say he's arrogant, rude to certain countries, but I don't care. At least he's real. He doesn't bend for the camera."
There was no fangirl glow in her eyes. No overexcited giggles. Just quiet admiration for someone she thought she'd never meet.
And that hit him harder than he thought possible.
She admired him… even now?
From Nigeria, the very place he'd once looked down upon in media interviews he regretted.
A tight feeling crawled up his chest. Not guilt. Something deeper.
Without realizing it, he reached for the food on the table.
He took one bite. Then another.
"…It's tasty," he murmured.
Angel looked over but said nothing. Just gave a small, knowing sigh and resumed eating.
In that shared silence, a new kind of understanding began to form. Fragile, uncertain—but real.
And maybe, just maybe, the hundred days ahead wouldn't feel so endless anymore.
Thanks for reading.