"Eat slowly," Zhong Hua said, using his chopsticks to pick out all the green peppers from the lunchbox and pile them on the empty space at the edge of the lunchbox. The green pepper strips, soaked in the orange-red broth, looked like a forgotten little island.

Ah Yu, with an egg stuffed in his mouth, mumbled indistinctly, "You talk too much." As he spoke, he picked up the largest piece of tomato and handed it over the lunchbox to Zhong Hua's bowl. Tomato juice dripped onto the table, and as Zhong Hua reached out to wipe it, Ah Yu also came over with a tissue, their hands bumping together in mid-air, as if emitting a soft laugh.

Lin Wanqing, head down, ate her rice, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the blush on Zhong Hua's ears. She remembered the university cafeteria, where Ah Yu would always snatch the tomatoes from Zhong Hua's bowl, saying they were sour and refreshing. Zhong Hua would then give him his share, silently eating the green peppers from both of their bowls. Back then, she sat opposite him, watching Ah Yu drip tomato juice onto Zhong Hua's math notebook. Zhong Hua didn't get annoyed; he simply moved the notebook closer to himself and continued calculating his Fourier transform.

"Let's go to the lake to photograph the sunrise next week," Ah Yu suddenly said, stuffing the last piece of egg into his mouth. "Last time we went to Qinghai, we didn't get good weather, but the forecast says there will be a sunrise this time." As he spoke, he picked up the iced tea on the table, and his action of twisting the lid was exactly the same as Zhong Hua's—his thumb pressed against the edge and turned half a circle before twisting it open with force.

Zhong Hua had just finished emptying the selected green peppers into the trash can when he heard this, and paused for a moment: "We have to leave at five in the morning."

"That's perfect," Ah Yu's eyes lit up. "We can take pictures of the morning mist. Remember to bring your telephoto lens." As he spoke, he crushed the empty beverage bottle and accurately tossed it into the trash can three meters away. The arc of the parabola was exactly the same as when Zhong Hua threw away trash.

Lin Wanqing put down her chopsticks and watched as Ah Yu got up to pack up his camera. When he removed the lens cap, he casually placed it next to Zhong Hua's notebook—a spot where Zhong Hua could easily reach it with his left hand. While packing up the lunchbox, Zhong Hua pulled Ah Yu's camera battery out of the charger and put it into the side pocket of Ah Yu's camera bag, his movements as practiced as if he were taking care of his own belongings.

The rain was still falling, making a buzzing sound as it tapped against the windowpane. Lin Wanqing looked out the window at the streetlights, wet with rain, their glow spreading out in a blurry, warm yellow hue on the glass. She remembered the painting she had just finished: on an indigo background, three blurry spots of light stood close together, like three stars nestled together.

Ah Yu slung his camera over his shoulder and bumped into Zhong Hua's arm as he turned around. Zhong Hua reached out to steady him, his palm resting on Ah Yu's shoulder blade, the pressure just enough to steady his swaying body. "Clumsy," he said again, his voice softer than before, like cotton soaked in rain.

Ah Yu slapped his hand away, but the blush on her face didn't fade. "Let's go, let's go," he said, running towards the door, "to check if the film is dry, so we can scan it tomorrow."

Zhong Hua watched his retreating figure, a smile involuntarily creeping onto his lips. Lin Wanqing picked up her paintbrush and added a touch of warm orange-yellow to the canvas, connecting the blurry patches of light. Amidst the sound of rain, she heard Zhong Hua follow, his footsteps mingling with the sound of Ah Yu's slippers, like an unfinished song.

The rain was still falling outside the window, soaking the whole world in a warm, damp atmosphere. Lin Wanqing looked at the gradually clearer outlines on the canvas and suddenly felt that some habits are like tree rings, slowly growing together over time, intertwined and yet gentle enough to bring peace of mind.

She picked up the water cup for washing her brushes and glanced out the window. In the halo of the streetlights, the raindrops looked like countless fine threads, stitching the night into a warm cocoon. And inside the cocoon, the people continued their tacit understanding, like two drops of water slowly merging into one in time.