Things That Stay on the Skin

It was autumn before they realized time had been passing.

Leaves clung to the city in colors that felt almost violent — reds too deep, yellows too honest. They walked together after classes, shoulders brushing, never quite touching long enough to admit what it. Minjun asked questions Yichen wasn’t used to.

“Why do you paint people who are leaving?”

“Why do they never look back?”

Yichen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he invited Minjun to his apartment.

The light that evening was softer than usual. Minjun stood still while Yichen painted him — not his face, not really, but the way his presence filled a room. The space between collarbone and throat. The tension in hands that wanted to do something but didn’t yet know what.

When Minjun finally spoke, it was barely sound at all.

“You see me,” he said.

Yichen’s brush paused mid-air.

That was the first thing that stayed.