hiiii! i really enjoy reading your niki aus!! if the request are open, is it possible to request a vernon or minghao x oc one-shot/short drabble based off of niki's song 'facebook friends'? i just heard it again and thought about them :((((
YOU ARE IN LUCK BCS I JUST SAW NIKI 😭 when i read this request I JUST KNEW WHAT TO DO but i'm still working on my angst writing skills but i hope you enjoy this one🥺
alsoooo for reqs, i am slowly working my way through them. it might take some time tho so just a heads up😅🤍
for my other svt fics, check them here
All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.
(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)
You stare at the name on your email inbox, double-checking to make sure you read it correctly.
Xu Minghao.
Your fingers tighten around the edge of your desk as Jihyo leans over your shoulder. "No way," she whispers. "It’s him? The artist you've been trying to track down is him?"
It almost doesn’t feel real. The elusive, secretive artist whose work has been making waves in the industry—the one you’ve been assigned to collaborate with for the upcoming exhibit—is none other than the person you once thought might be your forever.
The one who slipped away from you like a dream fading in the morning light.And now, after years of silence, you have a meeting scheduled with him.
You exhale slowly, trying to push down the sudden wave of emotions threatening to rise. It's been years. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe you have. But there’s no denying that the name on your screen still has the power to shake you.
Jihyo nudges your shoulder. “Are you okay?”
You nod, though you’re not entirely sure if it’s true.
“I mean, what are the odds?” she says, still staring at the screen like it might change if she blinks enough times. “Are you gonna go?”
You give her a look. “Of course, I have to. It’s my job.”
“Yeah, but—” she pauses, studying you. “It’s him. You never really told me what happened between you two.”
You swallow, memories flashing through your mind—late-night conversations, whispered laughter, the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in the room. And then, the goodbye that came too soon.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “We just… lost each other.”
Jihyo hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer but choosing not to push. Instead, she gestures toward your laptop. “Well, whatever happened, you’re about to see him again. Are you ready for that?”
You glance at the email again, at the date and time of the meeting.
Ready or not, it’s happening.
The café you picked for the meeting is quiet, tucked away from the usual crowd. You arrived early, nerves buzzing under your skin, but you kept your posture composed. Professional. This is just work.
When Minghao walks in, the air seems to shift. He’s just as you remember—tall, effortlessly graceful, his presence commanding without trying. His dark eyes scan the space before they land on you.
“Hey,” he says simply, sliding into the seat across from you like this is the most casual thing in the world.
Like nothing ever happened.
Your grip tightens around your coffee cup. “Thanks for coming.”
He nods, leaning back slightly. “You were persistent.” There’s a ghost of amusement in his tone, but nothing more. No flicker of recognition beyond what’s expected. No acknowledgment of the past you once shared.
Jihyo, sitting beside you, clears her throat. “So, you two know each other?”
You hesitate. Minghao beats you to it.
“We used to.” His voice is light, indifferent. “It’s been a long time.”
That’s it. No warmth, no curiosity. Just a fact, stated and discarded.
Jihyo shoots you a glance, one eyebrow raised, but you can’t meet her eyes. Instead, you straighten your shoulders and force a professional tone. “Let’s talk about the exhibit.”
You pull out your tablet, tapping the screen to bring up the exhibit’s concept proposal. Your fingers are steady, your voice even as you start outlining the details, but you can feel Jihyo’s gaze flickering toward you every so often. She’s noticed. Of course, she has.
“This exhibit is designed to focus on themes of anonymity and identity,” you explain, keeping your tone neutral, professional. “Your work fits seamlessly with that concept. The way you obscure figures, distort reality—it makes the viewer question what’s real and what’s hidden beneath the surface.”
Minghao listens, his face unreadable. He nods slightly but doesn’t interrupt.
You glance up, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression gives away nothing. This version of him—cool, detached—feels foreign to you. The Minghao you knew was quiet but warm, his words sparse but meaningful. You remember the way his gaze used to linger, the way his laughter felt like a secret just for you.
But this man in front of you? He might as well be a stranger.
Still, you push through, keeping your voice steady.
“We’ll be dedicating an entire section to your work. Since you prefer anonymity, we can arrange for all communication to go through me directly—unless you’d like to be more involved in the curation process?”
Minghao tilts his head slightly, considering. “I trust your judgment.”
Something about the way he says it, so detached, makes something tighten in your chest.
“Then we’ll handle the layout and let you approve before finalizing. I’d also like to discuss any specific pieces you have in mind.”
Minghao hums, fingers lightly tapping against the table. “I’ll send over a selection tonight.”
And just like that, it’s all business. No hesitation, no awkwardness on his part. It’s like the years apart never happened. Like you never meant anything more than a fleeting acquaintance.
Jihyo clears her throat, leaning forward slightly. “So, Mr. Xu,” she says, feigning casual interest
“Minghao is fine”
“Right, sorry. Minghao, I heard you go way back, huh?”
You shoot her a sharp glance, but she ignores it.
Minghao, to your frustration, remains utterly unbothered. He gives a slight nod. “Yeah. We knew each other a long time ago.”
That’s it. No elaboration. No emotion.
“Minghao, we’d also like to arrange a preview event before the full opening—”
Jihyo leans back in her chair, clearly unimpressed with your deflection, but she lets it slide. For now.
The meeting continues, all smooth efficiency and professional formality. You and Minghao exchange words, but none of them are personal. Nothing slips through. Still, you can feel it. That undercurrent of something unresolved.
The office is quiet except for the rhythmic clicking of your keyboard as you work on the proposal layout. You’re determined to focus, to push past whatever lingering tension is still curling in your chest from the meeting. Minghao is just another artist, and this is just another exhibit. That’s all.
At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you see Jihyo.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just slowly rolls her chair over to your desk. The wheels squeak slightly against the floor, making her approach all the more dramatic. You pretend not to notice.
She stops right beside you, hands folded in her lap. Waits.
You continue typing, expression neutral.
Jihyo exhales. “So…”
You keep typing.
She leans in. “Who was Minghao to you?”
You knew this was coming. You let out a slow breath, still focused on the screen. “An artist I’m working with.”
Jihyo makes a noise—a mix between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, please.” She swivels her chair so she’s directly facing you. “I may not have known you when you two were a thing, but I know you now, and you were not normal back there.”
You sigh, finally looking at her. “Jihyo—”
She lifts a finger. “No. Don’t ‘Jihyo’ me. The tension at that table? I could taste it. And I don’t even know what flavor it was. Bitterness? Regret? Unresolved yearning?”
You groan, letting your head drop onto your desk. “Can we not?”
Jihyo pats your shoulder. “Oh, we absolutely can.” Then, after a pause, she adds, “But we won’t.”
You lift your head just enough to glare at her. “It was a long time ago.”
Jihyo tilts her head. “And yet, here we are.”
You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right. You did react. You did feel something. And the fact that Minghao acted like nothing ever happened? That stung more than you’d like to admit.
Jihyo smirks, clearly seeing the conflict on your face. “Look, I’m just saying… If this were a movie, this would be the part where you two have a dramatic, emotionally charged confrontation in the rain.”
You deadpan. “We’re curating an art exhibit, not starring in a K-drama.”
Jihyo grins. “Yet.”
The exhibit venue is quiet when you arrive. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the polished floors. You exhale, taking in the open space, already visualizing how the pieces will be arranged.
You came alone on purpose.
After the meeting with Minghao, you needed a moment to clear your head. No distractions, no lingering stares, no best friend dramatically rolling her chair toward you demanding answers.
Just you and the work.
You move toward the center of the room, pulling out your tablet to review the layout. The space is perfect—high ceilings, just the right balance of natural and artificial light. The way the walls curve will complement Minghao’s pieces beautifully. You can already imagine the way his art will breathe life into the room.
You’re so focused that you don’t notice someone else entering. Minghao stands near the entrance, hands in the pockets of his coat, eyes scanning the space before they land on you.
Your fingers tighten around your tablet. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He shrugs slightly. “I wanted to see the space for myself.” His voice is calm, casual like running into each other is just another normal occurrence. Like you didn’t sit across from each other yesterday, pretending you were just two professionals who had never been anything else.
You nod, forcing yourself to mirror his indifference. “It’s a good venue. Your pieces will stand out here.”
Minghao steps further inside, gaze flickering over the walls, the lighting, the empty space waiting to be filled. “It suits the theme.”
There’s a beat of silence. You shift your weight slightly, debating whether to say something more, but Minghao speaks first.
“You always wanted to do this, didn’t you?”
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“This.” He gestures loosely around the venue. “Curating. Putting together exhibits. I remember you talking about it.”
You stare at him for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. He remembers?
You shake it off, nodding. “Yeah. I worked for it.”
Minghao hums in acknowledgment, stepping closer. “You’re good at it.”
It’s a simple statement, but something about it makes your breath hitch. You tell yourself it’s just the surprise of hearing him say it, not the warmth curling at the edges of your chest.
You clear your throat, shifting the conversation back. “We’ll need to finalize the layout soon. If you have any specific requirements for how your pieces should be displayed, now’s the time to bring them up.”
Minghao looks at you, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “I trust your judgment.”
It’s the second time he’s said that, and yet, it still feels different coming from him.
For a moment, the weight of the past lingers in the space between you. But then, Minghao turns, walking further into the venue, and just like that, the moment is gone.
You pull up the digital floor plan on your tablet, stepping to the center of the space as Minghao watches. “The main area will have the larger installations,” you begin, voice steady, professional. “We want visitors to be drawn in immediately, so we’re positioning the most visually striking pieces here.”
Minghao nods slightly, his gaze sweeping across the room, already visualizing it. “This section will be more intimate. It’s meant to slow people down, to make them pause and really engage with the work rather than just passing through.”
You continue walking, feeling yourself getting more absorbed in the details. You’re in your element now curating, shaping the experience, making sure every piece has a purpose.
Then, you stop in front of a particular section of the room.
There’s something about this space. The way the light falls, the way it feels slightly tucked away yet still open. You can see it. something important should go here. Something that holds weight. But for some reason, the words to explain it won’t come out the way you want them to.
You frown slightly, trying to find the right phrasing. “This part—there’s just something about it,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “It’s like… I don’t know, it feels different from the rest of the space, like it—”
You cut yourself off, frustrated, but before you can try again, Minghao speaks.
“I can see that.”
You turn to him. He’s looking at the space, his expression soft, thoughtful. Then, he smiles—small, barely there, but real.
“You’re right,” he says simply.
And just like that, you know he understands. Exactly what you meant, even when you couldn’t find the words.
After walking through the space, you decide to stop by the small café tucked inside the venue. You were planning on going alone just a quick coffee before heading back to finalize more details but Minghao follows.
You don’t say anything as you both order, and he doesn’t make a move to leave once you find a quiet corner to sit. It’s not awkward, exactly.
Just… unexpected.
Then, as you stir your drink absentmindedly, he asks,
“How have you been?”
You blink, looking up at him. There’s no bitterness in his tone, no underlying anger or resentment. Just a simple question, asked like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You hesitate for a moment before answering honestly. “I’ve been better.”
Minghao nods slightly, as if he expected that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details. Just lets your words settle between you. For some reason, that makes it harder to breathe.
Minghao watches you for a moment, fingers curled loosely around his cup. Then, in that quiet, thoughtful way of his, he says,
“You look good. More at peace.”
You freeze. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what he means.
He’s not just saying you look good. He’s talking about then. About the person you were when you left him. The version of you who didn’t know what to say, who let silence build walls between you both until there was no way back.
The wrong person at the right time.
You swallow, gripping your cup a little tighter. “I guess time does that.”
Minghao hums in response, gaze still steady, like he’s seeing through you rather than just looking. But he doesn’t say anything more.
You take a sip of your drink, staring down at the foam swirling in your cup. The air between you and Minghao isn’t heavy, but it isn’t entirely light either. It’s balanced on the edge of something unspoken. Something that neither of you seem willing to reach for.
Still, if he can acknowledge you, then you can do the same for him.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” you say, setting your cup down. “Your work is everywhere now. People are obsessed with figuring out the artist behind it all.”
Minghao exhales a small laugh, tilting his head slightly. “That wasn’t really the goal.”
You nod, because you know that. He never cared for fame, only the art itself. “Still. Congratulations.”
His eyes flicker to yours, and for a second, there’s something unreadable in his gaze. “Thanks.”
You lean back in your seat, studying him in a way you hadn’t let yourself before. He’s still him—still thoughtful, still composed—but there’s something different now. A certain ease in his presence.
“I always thought you’d make it,” you admit quietly. “Even back then.”
Minghao watches you, his expression unreadable. “Yeah?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Of course. You were never meant to be small. It was just a matter of time before people realized how good you are.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something like surprise, something softer. He looks down at his cup, fingers tracing the rim. “You were the first person who ever said that to me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself for a moment. “I was?”
Minghao nods, gaze still on his drink. “Yeah.”
You sit with that for a moment, the weight of it settling between you. Back then, you were the one who saw it—the potential, the brilliance in him before the rest of the world did. You wonder if he remembers the late nights spent in quiet corners, sketchbooks spread out between you, his voice low as he talked about what he wanted to create.
You wonder if he remembers how much you believed in him.
Minghao lifts his head again, his gaze steady. “And you?” he asks. “Are you where you thought you’d be?”
The question catches you off guard.
You let out a slow breath, considering it. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I worked for this, and I love what I do. But… I don’t think I ever imagined it exactly like this.”
Minghao nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Then silence settles again, but this time, it doesn’t feel so sharp.
Maybe, after all these years, you’re both learning how to sit with unfinished conversations.
You don’t expect the call.
It’s late in the afternoon when your phone buzzes, Minghao’s name flashing across the screen. For a second, you just stare at it, debating whether to answer. But curiosity wins over hesitation, and you press the call button.
“I need to show you something,” he says, skipping the pleasantries.
You blink. “What?”
“My studio,” he says simply. “Come by if you can.”
And just like that, you’re standing outside his studio a few hours later, staring at the discreet entrance of a space you never expected to see. Minghao lets you in without a word, leading you through a warmly lit, open space that’s somehow both chaotic and meticulous. Canvases lean against the walls, paintbrushes sit in jars, and sketchbooks are stacked on nearly every surface.
It smells like paint, ink, and something distinctly him.
You take your time looking around, scanning the pieces scattered throughout the room. Some are finished, others half-done, waiting for something only Minghao knows. His style has evolved—bolder, more refined—but you can still see the traces of the artist you once knew.
Then your eyes land on something unexpected.
A random piece of paper, slightly worn at the edges, tucked between a few sketchbooks. And on it—
You.
A sketch, delicate and detailed, as if he had drawn it absentmindedly but with careful intent. The lines are softer than his usual work, more personal.
It looks like he made it a long time ago.
Your breath catches for just a second. You carefully pick up the paper, running your fingers over the edges. “This is…”
Minghao glances over, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t look surprised that you found it.
You look at him. “You kept this?”
He holds your gaze for a moment before shrugging. “It was never meant to be thrown away.”
There’s something in his voice—something quiet, something real—that makes your chest feel too tight. Minghao doesn’t acknowledge the sketch any further. No explanation, no lingering stares, no sentimental comments. Just a simple, indifferent shift in attention—like it was nothing at all. Like it wasn’t a quiet echo of something neither of you had spoken about in years.
Instead, he steps past you, gesturing toward a set of canvases against the wall. “These are the pieces I’m considering for the exhibit.” His tone is smooth, professional. As if the last few minutes never happened.
You exhale, steadying yourself before setting the sketch down carefully. If he wants to act like it wasn’t there, like it didn’t just pull you backward in time, then fine. Business as usual.
“I want this one in the main space,” Minghao says, tapping a particular canvas. It’s bold—strong lines, movement that commands attention. It’s exactly the kind of piece that pulls people in.
You nod. “It’ll work well as a centerpiece. We can adjust the lighting to enhance the depth here.” You gesture toward a section of the painting. “It should be the first thing people see when they enter.”
Minghao hums in agreement, moving on to the next one. He explains the intention behind each piece, his voice calm, collected. You listen, taking notes, asking the necessary questions. You keep your posture straight, your tone even. Like you’re just a curator working with an artist.
Like you didn’t just see a version of yourself from years ago, sketched on a piece of paper he never threw away.
You sit in the small office area of his studio, notebook open, pen moving as you jot down notes. Minghao sits across from you, leaning slightly against the desk, his arms folded as he explains his vision for the exhibit.
“This one should be near the entrance,” he says, tapping a photo of a piece. “It sets the tone.”
You nod, writing it down. “And the smaller installations?”
“Scattered,” he replies. “I want people to explore, not just walk through.”
You hum in understanding, scribbling another note. Your focus stays on the page, on the structure, on making sure everything is recorded properly.
Then—silence.
You don’t notice it at first, too absorbed in organizing his ideas into something tangible. But after a few beats, the quiet lingers, stretching between you like something waiting to be acknowledged.
You pause. Slowly, you look up.
Minghao is watching you.
His expression isn’t unreadable, nor is it piercing. It’s just… thoughtful. His dark eyes steady, observant, like he’s studying something beyond the notes you’re taking.
You hold his gaze, but he doesn’t speak.
It’s the way he used to look at you—when you weren’t paying attention, when you were lost in thought. Back then, you had pretended not to notice. You wonder if you should do the same now.
Instead, you blink, shifting slightly in your seat. “…What?”
Minghao’s lips curve just slightly, something almost amused flickering across his face. Then, as if nothing happened, he looks back at the notes.
“Nothing,” he says smoothly.
And just like that, he continues as if he hadn’t just looked at you like that.
Jihyo orders the second round before you even finish your first. She gives you a knowing look over the rim of her glass, waiting, letting the weight of the night settle around you. The bar is loud enough that no one else is paying attention to your conversation, but not so loud that you have an excuse to avoid it.
You sigh, pressing your fingertips against your temple. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Jihyo leans forward, eyes glinting under the dim lights. “How about the part where you and the mysterious, elusive Minghao actually have history? Because I’m still recovering from that revelation.”
You exhale a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We met in university.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We were… close.”
Jihyo raises a brow.
You roll your eyes. “Fine. We were together. Sort of.” You take a sip of your drink, letting the warmth settle in your chest before continuing. “It wasn’t like some grand, dramatic thing. One day, it was just… us. And it made sense.”
Jihyo watches you carefully, sipping her own drink. “And then?”
You grip your glass a little tighter. “And then one day, I left.”
She stills, waiting.
You swallow, staring at the ice cubes clinking softly against the glass. “It wasn’t planned. Or maybe it was, but not in a way I let myself admit. One day, I was fine, we were fine. And then the next, I told myself it was too much. Too fast.” Your fingers trace the rim of your glass absently. “I convinced myself I needed space. That if I stepped away, I’d figure things out. And when I was ready, he’d still be there.”
Jihyo doesn’t say anything, just watching you carefully.
You let out a quiet laugh, but it’s hollow. “That was just me being selfish.”
There. You finally said it.
“I came back,” you continue, voice quieter now. “I thought—maybe I’d say something, maybe I’d fix it. But by then, he was gone. Really gone. And I couldn’t blame him for that.”
Jihyo exhales slowly. “Damn.”
You huff out a weak laugh. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head, eyes searching yours. “And now?”
Now.
Now, you’re a curator, standing across from him in a professional setting, acting like none of it ever happened. Now, he’s a well-known artist, more self-assured, more composed, as if the years that passed had only refined him.
Now, you sit here, trying to be happy for him. And you are.
But there are moments—like when he looked at you in his studio, like when he spoke about his art the way he always used to—when you wish you met now.
When you wish he met this version of you.
You shake your head, forcing a small smile. “It doesn’t matter. He’s doing well. I’m happy for him.”
Jihyo gives you a long look, then sighs, taking another sip of her drink. “You can be happy for someone and still wish things were different.”
You close your eyes briefly, exhaling. “Yeah.”
Neither of you say anything for a while, just letting the weight of old memories and unfinished stories settle between you.
Then Jihyo knocks back the rest of her drink and slaps a hand on the table. “Okay, I love you, but that was depressing as hell. We need another round.”
You let out a real laugh this time, shaking your head. “Fine. One more.”
Jihyo grins. “Atta girl.”
And for now, that’s enough.
A few days later you go back to check the venue. With the event fast approaching you wanted to make sure everything is perfect.
The venue is quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of canvases and the soft hum of the overhead lights. It’s late—too late for the rest of the team to still be here—but you stayed behind, double-checking the placements, making sure everything looked just right.
Your footsteps echo lightly as you walk through the space, stopping in front of one particular painting.
It’s larger than you remember.
You know this piece. Or rather, you know the first version of it, the one that used to sit in Minghao’s dorm back in university. He had painted it late one night, the room dimly lit, colors swirling on the canvas as he worked in quiet concentration. You remembered watching him, sitting on the floor with your back against his bed, knees pulled to your chest.
A voice breaks through the stillness.
“I didn’t think you’d still remember that.”
You turn to see Minghao a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets. He isn’t surprised to see you here. Maybe he expected it.
Your lips curve slightly. “Of course I remember.” You glance back at the painting. “It’s right here.”
Minghao steps closer, stopping beside you. His gaze lingers on the canvas, something unreadable in his expression.
“This was the first piece I ever made public,” he says after a moment.
You blink, turning to him. “Really?”
He nods. “After you left, I thought about getting rid of it.” He exhales, tilting his head slightly. “But I couldn’t. So instead, I made it bigger. And when the time came to submit something for my first exhibit, I chose this.”
Something tightens in your chest.
You look up at him. His expression isn’t unreadable, nor is it particularly wistful. He’s just… there. Present. Real.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe some stories don’t need rewriting. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be undone, only understood.
You look back at the painting, taking in every stroke, every layer of color. It’s the same, but it’s different. Like you. Like him. Like everything that’s changed between you.
You swallow, voice quieter now. “So this was it. The start.”
Minghao nods, his voice just as soft. “Yeah.”
You don’t know what else to say.
The painting stretches before you, a silent testament to the history you share—one that neither of you ever really put into words. You keep your gaze on the painting, the familiar swirls of color pulling you back to a time when things were simpler—when you didn’t question what you meant to each other, when you just were.
Your voice is quiet when you ask, “Why this?”
Minghao doesn’t answer right away. He stands beside you, hands still tucked in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he looks at the painting.
Then, after a long pause, he says, “Because I thought even if we parted ways we were still under the same stars.”
Your breath catches.
His voice is steady, like he isn’t saying something that shakes you. Like it’s just a simple truth. “And maybe,” he continues, softer now, “somewhere, on rare days… you think of me too.”
You blink, staring at the painting but not really seeing it anymore.
Because the thing is...
he’s right.
There were days, rare but sharp, when your mind drifted to him. When a passing song or a quiet night sky would remind you of a version of yourself you hadn’t spoken to in years. A version that had loved him, once. A version that had left.
You exhale slowly. “I did.” A pause. “I do.”
Minghao doesn’t react right away. But then, almost imperceptibly, his lips curve—just slightly, just enough for you to notice.
Neither of you say anything for a while. You just stand there, in the quiet of the venue, looking at a piece of art that holds more history than either of you are willing to say out loud.
Then, finally, Minghao shifts. “Come on,” he murmurs, glancing toward the exit. “You shouldn’t stay here this late. I’ll walk you out.”
You hesitate, just for a second. Then you nod.
But as you follow him out, you glance back one last time—at the painting, at the stars you once saw in it.
And you wonder how many times you’ve looked up at the same sky, thinking of him without realizing he was doing the same.
The event is a success.
People linger in front of Minghao’s pieces, murmuring their admiration, pointing out the details, the emotions woven into every brushstroke. Critics and collectors alike speak highly of his work, and you hear words like breathtaking and transcendent float through the air as you move through the crowd.
And yet, he’s not here.
You knew he wouldn’t be. Minghao had always been private, letting his work speak for him rather than stepping into the spotlight himself. But still, as the evening progresses and the venue slowly empties, you find yourself glancing at the entrance, wondering.
When the crowd finally dies down and most of the guests have gone, you take a quiet moment to breathe.
Then the door opens.
You turn
And there he is.
Minghao walks in without ceremony, effortlessly slipping into the space that had been dedicated to him all night. He looks around briefly, taking it all in, before his gaze finds you.
And in his hands a bouquet of flowers.
You blink, caught off guard. “You bought me flowers?”
His lips curve into something close to a smile. “It seemed fitting.”
You accept them hesitantly, fingers brushing over the petals. They’re simple, elegant not overly extravagant, but thoughtful. Like him.
He exhales, looking around at his own work before settling his gaze back on you. “It turned out even better than I imagined.”
You nod. “People loved it.”
Minghao hums, glancing at one of the paintings. Then, after a beat, he says, “Thank you.”
You look up at him, tilting your head. “For what?”
His expression softens. “Because you were the first person who ever believed in me.”
Something catches in your throat.
You think back to university, to late nights spent watching him paint, to the way you had always known—even back then—that he had something special. That the world would recognize it one day.
“I just saw what was already there,” you say quietly.
Minghao holds your gaze for a moment before letting out a small breath. “Still.”
You don’t say anything else. You just stand there, surrounded by his art, by his success, by the quiet weight of everything that has led to this moment. And this time, there’s no regret. Just something warmer, something steady. Something that feels a little like peace.
You glance down at the flowers in your hands, fingers brushing over the petals. The colors are soft, warm—not unlike the way this moment feels. When you look back up at Minghao, he’s already watching you. Not expectantly, not searching.
Just seeing you. The way he always has.
“I’m glad we met again,” you say, voice quieter now.
Minghao’s gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t ask what you mean, doesn’t press for something deeper. Maybe because he already knows. You’re content to meet this version of him. And you’re happy he got to see this version of you too.
Minghao exhales softly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he nods, just once. “Me too.”
Minghao reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He hesitates for just a second before extending it toward you. You take it carefully, unfolding it with steady hands.
And there it is—the original sketch of his first painting. The one you used to watch him work on in that tiny university dorm, the one that reminded you of the stars. The one that started everything.
You trace the faded lines with your fingertips, feeling the weight of time in every stroke.
Minghao exhales, tilting his head slightly. “It’s fitting that you have it.”
You look up at him, surprised. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “You were the first person who saw something in it. In me.” A small pause, then, softer—“It should be yours.”
Something in your chest tightens—not with regret, not with longing, but with something steadier, something like understanding.
You fold the paper carefully, holding it close. “Thank you.”
Minghao doesn’t say anything else. He just gives you a small, knowing smile before turning back to look at his own paintings. The pieces of himself that the world finally sees.
And as you stand there, with the past in your hands and the present settling around you, you realize—this is closure.
And it’s enough.
