Unsent Drafts: Microdramas

Strange Familiarity

Some mornings, Cheng Yu woke and his heart lurched when he saw Xiao Shuai beside him. Other times, he’d scroll through photos of them together, staring at the smiles, the laughter, the tenderness captured. He could narrate their history down to the smallest detail—yet the warmth, the recognition, never came.

So he began writing.

He filled a notebook with a list titled: Things I Know About Xiao Shuai.

1. He takes his coffee black, but adds sugar on Mondays.

2. He hates horror movies but secretly reads their Wikipedia synopses.

3. His right hand is always colder than his left.

4. He hums when he ties his shoelaces.

5. He loves me.

That last entry was the hardest to put down. Because Cheng Yu didn’t feel it. Not anymore.

One evening, Xiao Shuai discovered the notebook.

“You’re… cataloguing me.” His tone was quiet as he flipped through the entries.

Cheng Yu’s jaw tightened. “I need to remind myself why I love you.”

Xiao Shuai’s breath caught. “Do you not love me anymore?”

“I don’t know.”

The words cut through the air like glass.

Xiao Shuai sat down heavily, staring at the notebook in silence. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he looked up. “Then let’s start over.”

Cheng Yu frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Let me take you on a first date again,” Xiao Shuai said. “No history. No expectations. Just you and me, two strangers trying to fall in love.”

Their first “date” was clumsy.

Xiao Shuai picked a quiet bistro, somewhere neither of them had been. He dressed in a crisp shirt Cheng Yu hadn’t seen before, styled his hair differently. He was trying to become someone new—someone Cheng Yu might fall for again.

They spoke like strangers.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Xiao Shuai asked, twirling his fork.

Cheng Yu hesitated before answering. “…comedies. But not slapstick.”

Xiao Shuai smiled faintly. “I would’ve guessed thrillers. You always had that sharp, analytical way of looking at things.”

Cheng Yu stiffened. “Don’t… remind me of what I should already know. Just… pretend we don’t.”

Xiao Shuai nodded, eyes soft. “Okay. Then let me ask again. What kind of movies do you like?”

This time, Cheng Yu smiled faintly. “Comedies. The dry, witty ones. The kind where the characters talk too much.”

Xiao Shuai chuckled. “Then maybe you’ll like me. I talk too much.”

There were awkward silences. Forced laughter. But there were also glimmers—moments when Xiao Shuai’s eyes crinkled with genuine amusement, or when Cheng Yu caught himself leaning forward without realizing.

Recognition. Warmth. A seed of something.

Over the months, they tried again.

They went on more “first dates.” A movie night, where Xiao Shuai deliberately picked a film neither of them had seen. Cheng Yu found himself laughing halfway through, startled by the sound of his own laughter.

A trip to the park, where Xiao Shuai suggested they feed the pigeons. Cheng Yu grumbled about it being ridiculous but ended up laughing when one particularly bold pigeon tried to steal Xiao Shuai’s snack.

Late-night walks, where they spoke like strangers—sharing stories as if for the first time.

One evening, as they sat on a park bench, Xiao Shuai glanced sideways. “If you met me right now, as if for the first time… would you like me?”

Cheng Yu hesitated. “…I don’t know. But I think I’d be curious.”

Xiao Shuai smiled, faint but real. “Curious is enough. I’ll be curious.”

One night, Xiao Shuai lit candles in their living room and played an old vinyl—a song they had once danced to countless times.

He held out his hand. “Dance with me. Even if it doesn’t feel like anything yet.”

Cheng Yu’s chest tightened. He wanted to say no, to spare himself the ache. But he stood anyway.

They danced slowly, swaying to the familiar melody. Xiao Shuai’s hand was warm at his waist, steady as always. And for the first time in months, Cheng Yu closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Xiao Shuai’s shoulder.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t a revelation.

But it was peace.

And for now—that was enough.

Nearly a year later, Cheng Yu was folding laundry when it happened.

Xiao Shuai stumbled into the room, hair mussed from a nap, wearing one of Cheng Yu’s old hoodies. He yawned, rubbing at his eyes, looking both utterly ordinary and utterly his.

And just like that, it hit.

The rush. The flood. The recognition.

That’s him. That’s my Xiao Shuai.

Cheng Yu laughed suddenly, startling himself.

“What’s funny?” Xiao Shuai asked, blinking.

Cheng Yu dropped the shirt, crossed the room, and kissed him. Deep. Warm. Real.

When they pulled apart, Xiao Shuai’s eyes were wide. “What was that?”

“You came back,” Cheng Yu whispered, voice breaking. “Or maybe I did.”

“You… remembered?”

Cheng Yu smiled through the sting of tears. “No. I never forgot. I just needed to feel it again.”

They kissed again, holding on tightly.

Later that night, tangled under the sheets, Xiao Shuai whispered, “I was scared you’d leave.”

Cheng Yu’s voice was low, steady. “I was scared I already had.”

They stayed there, hearts syncing in the quiet.

Because sometimes, love forgets its name.

But if it’s real, it always finds its way home.