The rain finally slowed, leaving the streets damp and quiet. An and Minh reached the hospital gates, where a pale yellow light glowed faintly from the upper floors. Minh stopped walking. His shoulders looked heavier than ever. “You should go home,” he said softly. But An hesitated. “Minh… do you want me to come with you?” His eyes flicked to her, surprised, then quickly turned away. “No. This isn’t something you need to see.” An bit her lip. She wanted to insist, but the look on his face—calm but fragile—made her heart ache. Instead, she nodded gently. “Alright. But… you don’t have to carry it all alone.” --- The next day at school, Minh seemed even quieter. He barely touched his notebook, staring out the window as usual. But An noticed his hand trembling slightly when he held his pen. At break, she leaned closer. “Minh, about yesterday… your mom. How is she?” He froze, the pen pausing midair. For a moment, An thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, with a deep breath, he murmured, “She’s been sick for a long time. The doctors say… it’s serious. Some days I don’t know if she’ll ever come home.” An’s chest tightened painfully. She whispered, “That’s why you go there every day…” Minh’s lips curved into a bitter half-smile. “It’s the only place that matters.” --- That afternoon, An walked home alone. Her thoughts swirled—about Minh’s loneliness, about the unfair rumors, about the quiet strength he carried. She clenched her fists. If no one else will stand beside him, then I will. The next morning, An placed a small bento box on his desk. “I… I made lunch. If you don’t mind, maybe you can try it.” Minh blinked, clearly taken aback. “You don’t have to—” “I know.” An cut him off, forcing a smile. “But I want to.” For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he accepted the box. His fingers brushed hers, warm and trembling. “…Thanks,” he whispered. And in that simple word, An felt a promise—a fragile connection that might one day grow into something unbreakable.