Episode 19

Chen knocked softly on the door. It's me, Dunk.

Come in, Dunk called out.

What are you looking for? Chen asked, noticing Dunk staring at him.

You didn’t bring me anything to eat, Dunk replied casually.

Do you want something to eat? You didn’t ask, Chen responded, glancing up briefly.

No, no. But why did you come here, then? Dunk asked.

Should I not? This used to be my room too, Chen said, lying back on the bed casually.

Here, I brought you an orange. Your mom said you don’t like juice, Chen added, tossing the fruit toward Dunk.

Thanks, bro, Dunk caught it, smiling faintly.

Dunk’s gaze shifted to the painting on the wall—the one they had won at the gallery. Do you want to keep this?

Why don’t you want to keep it? Chen asked, raising an eyebrow.

It’s not that. It’s just... when I look at it, it feels too heavy.

Are you talking about the story we created for this painting? Chen asked, looking at the artwork.

No, not the story itself. But when I look at this painting, I can’t stop thinking about the person in it. From my point of view, he looks more like a writer than a reader.

Dunk’s voice softened. It’s like I can see all his unsaid feelings trapped inside it.

Chen paused, his thoughts drifting. You're right it makes sense too.

The author must have been hiding something deep inside, something he couldn’t share except through his work. You can see the frustration in the painting.

Maybe he's writing about the things he wouldn’t dare to tell, Chen murmured, his heartbeat raised at the realization.

For a brief moment, their eyes met, but they both quickly turned away, feeling the weight of the silence between them.

You can keep it, Dunk said, his voice quiet. It’s the first memory we made together.

Chen felt a lump in his throat. So, eventually you’re putting this weight on me, he said, his words coming out unexpectedly.

Dunk didn’t respond, his eyes growing misty as he turned away.

Chen noticed and, without thinking, wrapped his arms around Dunk from behind in a comforting hug. Neither of them spoke for a while, just holding each other close in silence.

They stayed like that, not daring to face the truth between them.

If someone perhaps read the author’s work... Do you think they’d understand the author’s feelings? Dunk asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Or would they find it strange, maybe even disgusting?

I don’t know about anyone else, but I know about a reader who’s completely obsessed with an author. He doesn’t know the author’s name, face, or even gender. He just knows that his books are the only place where he feels understood, safe.

Dunk turned to meet Chen’s eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. And in that moment, they kissed—passionately, as if it was the last day of their lives, pouring all the unspoken feelings they’d kept hidden into the embrace.

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