Unsent Drafts: Microdramas

Strange Familiarity

The room smelled like chamomile and clean linen, a scent Gu Cheng Yu had always loved. The faint hum of the air conditioner was a backdrop to the silence, steady and familiar. And yet—for some reason—everything felt wrong.

Jiang Xiao Shuai was in the kitchen, humming under his breath as he poured hot water over a tea bag. His movements were rhythmic, practiced—the kind of rhythm Cheng Yu should have known like his own heartbeat. But tonight, as Cheng Yu sat at the edge of their couch, staring at the slope of Xiao Shuai’s shoulders, the familiarity felt thin. Like a thread that could snap at any moment.

He blinked, hard. The feeling didn’t go away.

“Babe, you okay?”

Xiao Shuai turned, brows furrowing with concern. His voice—soft, steady, with that warmth that used to steady Cheng Yu on his darkest days—cut through the quiet.

Cheng Yu swallowed. His throat was dry. “Yeah. Just… dizzy for a second.”

Xiao Shuai carried the cup over, steam curling between them. As their fingers brushed, Cheng Yu flinched—just barely, but enough to notice. Xiao Shuai’s eyes flickered in surprise before softening again.

“Do you want to lie down? I can bring the tea to the room,” Xiao Shuai offered gently.

Cheng Yu shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll sit.”

They sat in silence. Xiao Shuai close by, close enough that Cheng Yu could feel his warmth—but tonight, it didn’t soothe. It only reminded him of how wrong everything felt.

Later that night, Xiao Shuai found Cheng Yu in the bathroom.

The light buzzed faintly above them, illuminating Cheng Yu’s pale face in the mirror. His eyes were red, though no tears fell. He stared at himself like he didn’t quite recognize the man looking back.

“Hey,” Xiao Shuai said softly, stepping closer. Their reflections lined up in the mirror—two figures side by side. To anyone else, they would look like a couple settled into their quiet routine. But Cheng Yu’s chest tightened.

“I think I’m losing it,” Cheng Yu whispered, voice trembling.

“No, you’re not.” Xiao Shuai placed a tentative hand on his back. “Something’s going on. Tell me what it is.”

Cheng Yu’s lips parted, but it took him a moment before the words escaped.

“You feel like a stranger to me.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Cheng Yu rushed to explain, words tumbling over one another. “Not because I don’t remember you—I do. I remember everything. Our trip to Chiang Mai. How your lips swell if you eat peanuts. The way you sing that ridiculous jingle when you wash dishes. I know it all, but it’s like… none of it connects. It’s like I’m describing someone else’s life.”

Xiao Shuai’s hand is still on his back. “Jamais vu,” he murmured.

Cheng Yu blinked. “What?”

“The opposite of déjà vu,” Xiao Shuai explained, his voice steady even as his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear. “When something you should recognize feels… unfamiliar. Your mind knows me. Your heart is just struggling to catch up.”

Relief and terror tangled in Cheng Yu’s chest. “Yes. That. Exactly. It’s terrifying.”

Xiao Shuai’s expression softened, though pain lurked beneath it. He pulled Cheng Yu into an embrace. But Cheng Yu stood stiff, unmoving.

“We’ll get through this,” Xiao Shuai whispered, determination steady in his tone. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The feeling didn’t fade.