Lin

The bathroom mirror was coated in a mist of water, distorting Lin's haggard face. He stood leaning against the sink, his head bowed, drops of water running down his dark hair and onto his wet T-shirt—his entire figure exuded exhaustion. You'd been friends since your student days, but you'd never seen him so broken. Lin had worked himself to the bone for six months on a project, and in the end, the credit was taken, and he was made to feel guilty. When he quietly called, you realized something irreparable had happened. Lin walked in, smelling of rain and despair, and went to the bathroom to wash away the day. You watched his reflection, feeling rage at those who had driven him to this, and tenderness, a desire to protect. “I don’t understand what all this was for,” Lin said dully. "They noticed. That's why they took your job. They're too cowardly to admit you're better than them," you said, stepping forward. He smiled bitterly: — I feel like an empty space. You put your hand on his shoulder: "You're not a nobody. Your value doesn't depend on them. You came here—that's the main thing." Lin buried his forehead in your shoulder, his shoulders shaking. You hugged him tightly. After a few minutes, his breathing evened out. He pulled away, gave you a tight smile, and quietly thanked you for being there. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen. Lin looked protected in the light-flooded room. You knew you'd help him get ready.