#fu fluff

He racked his brain for three days. Made decisions as if there were no end to them.

No, that wasn’t quite right. He tried to make decisions for three days, and it felt like being ordered to piece together a shattered mosaic without ever seeing the picture. At first, he simply sifted through options, one, two, three. He discarded the unsuitable ones, returned to those he’d rejected, discarded them again, until his mind first turned into a muddle, and then into a hollow emptiness, echoing and numbing.

Then he began to build criteria. Hii had said he needed to think about the consequences, and Fu tried. He sat in his little room, clutching the doll in his hands, and spoke aloud chains of causes and effects until his voice grew hoarse.

By the evening of the third day, he was left with two options. Two good, correct options. And at that very moment, his brain, already working at its limit, simply stopped. He stared at the two sheets of paper, on which “pros” and “cons” had been scrawled in crooked letters, and couldn’t tell which weighed more. They both seemed equally heavy and equally frightening.

Despair came over him in a sticky, burning wave. He wanted to scream, to fling the papers at the wall, to crawl under a blanket and not come out until everything resolved itself. But through the noise of panic, one quiet yet persistent thought broke through.

What would you do?

He caught himself asking that question not for the first time. When he didn’t know whether to approach someone with a request, or when he doubted how to respond to harshness, he always imagined you. What you would do, how you would look, what you would say. And in some strange, inexplicable way, it helped: you were his inner compass, even if you didn’t know it.

But now a compass wasn’t enough, now he needed to hear your voice.

He shoved the papers into his pocket, groped for Hii and tucked him in after them, then hesitated, pulled him back out, having him close was comforting, but what if he said again that Fu was helpless? and in the end stepped into the corridor empty-handed, feeling naked and defenseless.

You were in the kitchen, your favorite place. Fu found you by the smell, sweet, slightly cloying, mixed with the steam of tea. You were sitting at the table, propping your cheek on your hand; a mug stood before you, along with a small pile of colorful candy wrappers. In the dim light, you looked so calm, so homely, like you always did when there was nowhere to rush and nothing to decide.

He stopped in the doorway, drawing his head into his shoulders, and without noticing, took on the posture of someone coming to confess: hands clasped behind his back, shoulders drawn in, gaze fixed on the floor. Though he wasn’t guilty, just...asking for help felt scarier than deciding on his own.

— “Oh, Fu,” your voice sounded soft, tinged with surprise.

— “Why so down?”

He raised his eyes. You were looking at him with slight concern, and that made him feel both ashamed and warm at the same time.

— “Hi,” he forced out; his voice had gone rough after so many conversations with himself.

— “I… I need your help.”

He emphasized your as though it were the most important word in the world and for him, it was. Understanding lit up your face, your concern shifting into gentle curiosity.

— “Did something happen?”

— “Not exactly…” he faltered, realized how silly that sounded, and quickly corrected himself.

— “No, nothing happened. It’s just… I can’t decide what to choose.”

You exhaled in obvious relief, and that gave him the courage to take a step forward.

— “I thought,” the words rushed out, stumbling over each other, “you know everything. You always know. You’ll help. Right?”

There was so much hope in his gaze that, warmed by this awkward feeling, you nudged your mug aside, inviting him to sit next to you.

— “Oh, Fu, thank you,” you smiled, and his heart somersaulted.

— “Well then, tell me what’s going on.”

He came closer, sat on the edge of the chair like a bird on a branch, ready to take flight at any moment. He pulled the crumpled sheets from his pocket, smoothed them with trembling fingers, placed them on the table between you, and began to speak.

He spoke for a long time, haltingly, with pauses, circling back, checking himself. You listened without interrupting, and at some point he felt the tension that had been building for three days begin to slowly ease. Because you were here, you were listening, your eyes followed his scribbles attentively, without judgment and there was something in them that made even his most foolish reasoning feel meaningful.

— “…and I just can’t anymore,” he finished almost in a whisper.

— “They’re both good. I don’t know which is better. I don’t understand anything anymore.”

He fell silent, staring at his hands resting on the table ,thin, pale, with bitten nails. The hands of someone used to carrying out orders, not making choices.

You picked up one sheet, then the other. Fu held his breath. The kitchen was quiet; only the faint clink of the mug against the saucer as you took a sip, and the soft rustle of wrappers under your elbow.

— “What if,” you began slowly, “you imagine that you’ve already made your choice? Chosen the first option. What do you feel?”

He closed his eyes, trying to picture it. Lighter? No. Scared? Yes. But…

— “Scared,” he said honestly.

— “But… inside something feels… steadier. Calmer.”

— “And the second?”

He imagined the second, and his face twisted.

— “Calm too,” he muttered, confused.

— “But differently. Like… in the first case I’m hiding, and in the second I’m… stepping out. But that’s scarier.”

You nodded, and suddenly Fu realized, you weren’t giving him an answer. You were helping him find his own. And that mattered more, because it meant you believed he was capable of choosing, even when he himself didn’t.

You sat like that for a long time, you asking questions, sometimes unexpected, sometimes funny and with each answer the picture grew clearer. Fu even caught himself laughing once, lightly, freely, when you asked if he was afraid the chosen option might turn out defective. He said he was afraid of everything, and you both laughed.

And then the moment came when everything fell into place. Fu looked at the two sheets, and suddenly one of them stopped being just paper, it became his decision. Not yours, not Hii’s - his. And it was strange: not frightening or heavy, but somehow bright.

— “This one,” he said, touching the left sheet with his finger. His voice was steadier than it had been the entire conversation.

— “I choose this one.”

You looked at him, and something warm, proud lit up in your eyes, or maybe he only imagined it. But that warmth spread inside him, something vast filling his chest.

— “Great,” you said simply.

And then he smiled, not that usual, timid smile he used to hide behind in awkward moments, but a real one, wide, bright, coming from somewhere deep inside where only fear used to live. It lit up his face, made it different - alive, beautiful. You even found yourself admiring him for a moment, though he didn’t notice. He was glowing.

— “Thank you,” he breathed out, and in that word was everything: relief, joy, and something he didn’t know how to name.

— “You… you helped. You always help. Even when you’re not there.”

He stood up, pressing the sheet to his chest, hesitated for a moment as if wanting to add something, but the words ran out. Instead, he just looked at you, long and seriously, with a gratitude deeper than words could express.

Then he turned and almost ran out of the kitchen, smiling as he went, nearly bouncing with each step.

You stayed at the table, among tea and candy wrappers, thinking about what had just happened. About how that awkward, timid boy, afraid of his own shadow, had spent three days struggling with a choice. And how he had come to you not for an answer, but for faith that he could decide on his own. And how you had helped him find that faith. And it made your heart feel very warm.

You took the last candy, unwrapped it, and, smiling, thought: maybe you learned something today too. That helping doesn’t mean giving answers. It means being there when someone is searching for their own path. And that sometimes the best gift is simply believing in someone who doesn’t believe in themselves.And Fu, already sitting in his little room, rereading the sheet with his chosen option, whispered softly to Hii:

— “She said… she asked what I feel. And I understood. I understood it myself. Can you imagine?”