Wei moved away in the middle of the term.
The announcement came quietly, folded into the end of morning attendance like an afterthought. Ms. Han mentioned it with a polite smile, her voice careful, already moving past it.
"Wei's family is relocating," she said. "Let's wish him well."
A few children murmured disappointment. Someone gasped softly. Another asked where he was going. The questions floated briefly, then dissolved into the next task.
Lune sat at his desk and listened.
Wei packed his things at lunch. His movements were clumsy, rushed, as if leaving too quickly might make it hurt less. He kept glancing at Lune, eyes shiny, waiting for something—comfort, maybe, or reassurance that this mattered.
"Will you miss me?" Wei asked, trying to sound casual.
Lune considered the question. He reviewed his internal log: shared lunches, exchanged homework help, defended shoes, traded desserts. Useful interactions. Consistent outcomes.
"I'll remember you," Lune said, choosing a phrase that sounded warm without promising anything.
Wei smiled, relieved. "I'll write," he said.
Lune nodded.
They did not hug. Wei's parents arrived early, hovering anxiously. There were hurried goodbyes, a teacher's hand on Wei's shoulder, and then he was gone.
The seat beside Lune remained empty for the rest of the day.
Lune noticed the absence the way one noticed a missing chair—an alteration in arrangement, not a loss. He adjusted his posture slightly to compensate for the extra space.
That night, at home, his mother asked, "Are you sad Wei moved away?"
Lune paused for exactly the right amount of time.
"A little," he said.
It was not true. It was not untrue in any meaningful way. The answer smoothed her concern.
"You made such a good friend," she said softly. "That must be hard."
Lune nodded, accepting the framing.
Later, alone in his room, he examined the question more carefully. He tried to locate the feeling he was supposed to have. Sadness, perhaps. Longing. A hollow space.
There was nothing.
He did not miss Wei's voice, or his presence, or the predictability of their routines. He did not feel relieved either. The absence was neutral.
Lune realized then that he never missed anyone.
When relatives left after visits, he felt no ache. When teachers transferred schools, he noted the change and adapted. When classmates drifted in and out of his life, he adjusted his patterns without resistance.
People arrived. People departed.
Nothing lingered.
The realization did not alarm him. It clarified something he had vaguely sensed for a long time.
Attachment, as others experienced it, did not occur inside him.
What he experienced instead was continuity. Systems replaced people easily. New inputs took the place of old ones without friction.
Lune lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, breathing evenly. The house was quiet. His parents moved downstairs, their voices low and familiar. He felt no pull toward them, no desire to join.
He was content in the stillness.
If Wei never wrote, Lune knew he would not notice the absence of letters. If he did write, Lune would respond appropriately. Either outcome was acceptable.
The thought settled into him gently.
He was unbothered.
And the absence of bother felt like another kind of freedom.