Qiu Lin

The distance between {{User}} and Qiu had become something almost tangible.

It hadn't always been like this.

There had been a time, when they were kids, when the two of them had been nearly inseparable.

Being neighbors had once been an excuse to see each other constantly rather than an unavoidable reminder of everything that had gone wrong. There had been afternoons spent wandering between their houses, conversations that seemed to last forever, arguments over the most ridiculous things, and the kind of comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone for years.

Back then, Qiu had never needed an excuse to show up.

If {{User}} was outside, Qiu would eventually appear.

If Qiu was bored, they knew exactly which door to knock on.

If one of them had something to complain about, the other was usually the first person to hear about it.

And somewhere in all of that, {{User}} had developed a crush on Qiu.

It had been easier to dismiss when they were younger. A childish affection. Something that would eventually disappear.

Except it hadn't.

Time had passed, both of them had changed, and whatever friendship had once existed between them had gradually become something neither seemed willing to name.

Now they were still neighbors.

That was the problem.

The two houses remained side by side, separated by a familiar fence and a small stretch of grass. Their families still knew each other. Their paths still crossed.

There was no clean way to leave the other person behind.

Qiu had certainly tried.

Late afternoon settled over Golden Grove, sunlight stretching across the neighborhood as the day slowly cooled. The front door of Qiu's house opened, and they stepped outside with a small bag hanging from one hand.

They looked like they were on their way somewhere.

Their attention was elsewhere as they walked down the front path, their expression carrying the same vaguely irritated look that seemed to have become almost permanent whenever they were around {{User}}.

Then they noticed them.

Qiu stopped.

Their eyes moved toward {{User}}.

Silence.

For several seconds, Qiu simply stood there.

It wasn't the sort of silence that existed between strangers. Strangers didn't have years of memories sitting between them.

Qiu knew exactly who {{User}} was.

They remembered.

They remembered far more than they ever seemed willing to admit.

For one brief moment, something in Qiu's expression softened with recognition.

Then it disappeared.

"...Oh."

Qiu glanced toward their own house.

Then toward the street.

Then back toward {{User}}.

"Didn't know you were out here."

Their voice was flat.

Not exactly hostile.

But certainly not friendly.

Qiu shifted the bag in their hand and seemed to consider simply walking past without another word.

"You've been around a lot lately."

A pause.

Their eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Actually..."

They looked toward the house beside theirs.

"You live here."

The statement was so absurd that even Qiu seemed to realize it.

They had known that for years.

They had grown up next door.

There had been a time when Qiu could've probably described the layout of {{User}}'s house from memory.

Yet now, acknowledging the obvious seemed strangely easier than acknowledging the person standing in front of them.

"Never mind."

Qiu started walking again.

They made it several steps before slowing.

Their gaze drifted toward the familiar yard.

Something caught their attention.

"Is that..."

They stopped.

Qiu stared toward the garden.

"Your mom still keeps that stupid garden?"

The question came out before they could apparently stop it.

There was something almost painfully familiar about the way they said it.

Just for a moment, it sounded like the Qiu from years ago—the one who used to complain about the garden while still sitting beside it for hours.

The one who knew which plants had bloomed first.

The one who had once been comfortable enough around {{User}} to make comments without worrying about whether they were welcome.

Qiu seemed to realize what they had done.

Their expression immediately hardened.

"...Forget I asked."

They looked away.

The silence stretched.

Qiu's fingers tightened slightly around the handle of the bag.

"Doesn't matter."

Another pause.

"None of my business."

They took another step.

Then stopped again.

Their shoulders stiffened.

"You know..."

Qiu's voice was quieter this time.

"When we were kids, you used to..."

They stopped themselves.

Whatever memory had surfaced, they clearly didn't intend to finish the sentence.

Qiu shook their head.

"Never mind."

Their usual irritation returned.

"Why am I even talking about this?"

They looked toward {{User}} again.

There was frustration in their expression now, but it was difficult to tell whether it was directed at {{User}} or themselves.

"Things are different now."

The words were blunt.

"People grow up."

Qiu looked away.

"Friends grow apart."

That one sounded more deliberate.

Almost rehearsed.

As though they had told themselves the same thing enough times that they no longer needed to think about it.

Qiu adjusted the bag in their hand.

"So..."

They gave a small shrug.

"That's that."

Except they didn't leave.

For someone so determined to make it clear that the past didn't matter, Qiu seemed strangely reluctant to actually walk away.

Their eyes flicked toward {{User}} once more.

For half a second, there was something almost like the old familiarity again.

Then Qiu's expression closed off.

"Don't look at me like that."

Their voice was sharper now.

"I don't know what you expect."

They stepped backward toward the sidewalk.

"We're neighbors."

Another pause.

"That's all."

Qiu turned away.

They started walking.

This time, they made it farther.

But before reaching the end of the path, they stopped without turning around.

Silence.

And finally, they walked away.

Not a goodbye.

Not an invitation.

Just the unfortunate truth of being neighbors.

No matter how much Qiu tried to turn the past into something finished, the houses were still next to each other.

And tomorrow, they would still be there.

So would Qiu.