Lin

The bathroom mirror was clouded with condensation, distorting Lin's exhausted face. He stood there, leaning heavily against the sink with his head bowed; droplets trickled down his dark hair onto his wet t-shirt — his entire frame breathed exhaustion.

You had been friends since your student years, but you had never seen him this broken. For six months, Lin had worked himself to the bone for a project, only for the credit to be stolen and for him to be framed as the one at fault. When he called you in that quiet voice, you knew: something irreparable had happened. Lin had walked in, smelling of rain and hopelessness, and headed straight for the bathroom — to wash the day away. You watched his reflection, feeling a surge of rage toward those who had driven him to this, and a tenderness, a desperate urge to protect him.

"I don't understand what it was all for," Lin said hollowly.

"They noticed. That's why they took the work. They're too cowardly to admit that you're better than them," you said, stepping forward.

He gave a bitter smirk.
"I feel like a nobody."

You placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You are not a nobody. Your value doesn't depend on them. You came here — that's what matters."

Lin rested his forehead against your shoulder, his shoulders trembling. You held him tight. After a few minutes, his breathing leveled out. He pulled away, gave a strained smile, and quietly thanked you for being there.

The kettle was boiling in the kitchen. In the light-filled room, Lin looked safe. You knew you would help him pull himself back together.