[ its cold. terribly, awfully cold, and shang qinghua does not have any of the right clothing to deal with the weather. the rain’s already soaked through what little clean clothes he had left, as he drags a medium sized suitcase behind him, the sleeves of the drenched denim coloured shirt he wears like a jacket dripping water down his palm lines. his hair, undone and sagging hopelessly with how much water has collected within it, is merely held out of his eyes by the small clip shen yuan had gifted him earlier that month. he feels pathetic when he reaches his friend’s door. he knocks anyway. he’s already homeless, what shame does he even have left? enough to fill the cartilage in all two hundred and six of his bones, he finds out, when shen yuan opens the door. ] hi, [ he tries, though his voice is cracked and nearly a sob when he speaks. ]