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AT SEVENTEEN, JUN THINKS HE KNOWS HOW TO CARE.

His teacher would probably agree. He always gets his school work in on time, his uniform perfectly pressed, his grades consistently good. His day is jam-packed with extracurricular activities, from badminton to mobile app coding. His social interaction is pretty much limited to at night, when he games with his friends. Jun cares about his schoolwork - and because of it, he does his best.

He's busy, but he likes it. It's much easier to focus when you don't have to think about other people.

But there's something else he cares about, he realises, as he ties the plastic bag holding the trash into a careful knot. He thinks of the kitchen next door. The familiar rustle of money, only notable because there's so little of it. His mother, her head in her hands, as she counts the bills. The air conditioning, the only one in the apartment, off, even though it's forty degrees outside, because they have to save electricity on what they can.

Maybe that's why he works so hard, he thinks. So his mother will never have to live like this again.

The hallway he steps into is dark, devoid of most light. It's late at night, almost eleven, and most people are sleeping. As he walks past the rows of grates pulled shut, his eyes snag on the door next to theirs.

There isn't anyone there. There hasn't been for the past few years.

Downstairs, a lone light shines on a mountain of trash. He leaves the bag and stretches, back protesting after a long day spent hunched over the desk. A leaky pipe drips on the floor.

He's about to go back upstairs when he notices a long shadow. He walks over to check, wondering if it's one of his neighbours.

He sees Han, and his words die on his lips.

For once, his brother's eyes are wild, feral. Two hours ago, Han ran out of the house after their mother brought her boyfriend - the first time she's dated in years - home.

Jun leans on the wall next to his brother. "Do you want to talk?"

"I can't believe it." The words pour, desperate, seeking a home. "It's only been a few years, Jun. Don't you remember the hospital? The -"

His brother can't continue, but he doesn't have to. Jun still sees his father, lying there, his eyes closed forever. The sharp tang of disinfectant. A mess of people, running, crying, screaming. White - so much white it was blinding. Biting his lip so hard he tasted the metallic sting of blood. We're sorry.

But when he turns back to Han, his voice is quiet. "Seven."

"What?"

"It's been seven years." A water droplet hits the floor with a loud plop. "I think she's happy, Han. She's been singing again. She smiles more. And when she brought him in - I think she really likes him. Wants us to like him, too."

In the light, shadows dance across his brother's face. His eyes are closed. "I just don't want her to get hurt."

Jun breathes out a sigh. "I don't, either. But she's made her choices. She's happy now. The least we could do is support her, right?"

A grate pulls upstairs. Han says, "Just like how you're supporting Yen?"

His gaze snaps to his brother's, the words already burning on his lips. "I haven't heard from her in ages."

It's not a full truth. In the five years since he's last seen her, he's heard so much. Yue tells him about her running, about her getting into the Singapore Sports School - her dream, she says, and he doesn't tell her he already knows. His mother tells him how she still comes to Jiaxiang and scarfs down food like she's afraid people will take it away from her.

He still remembers the day Han came home and said, Yen has a boyfriend.

"Don't lie," his brother says now. His gaze is piercing. "Is she better?"

"How would I know?"

"I know you were in the hospital earlier today."

The wind blows, making the plastic bags rustle. He swallows. "We're friends. Friends check up on each other."

"And friends run to the General Hospital in slippers at eleven o'clock at night?"

Though it's been twenty-four hours, the cool metal of his phone is a ghost in his hand. He remembers slippers slapping against cold tile, bursting into A&E, meeting Yen's coach. She fell during training. Being directed to a room where dim lights painted the walls blue and the light above the operating theatre remained distinctly dark.

Han props a leg against the wall and shifts slightly. In the distance, a lone ship steams past the bay. "You haven't even been into her room, have you?"

Jun's gaze drops to the floor. "No."

This child, her coach said to him as they waited outside, a fond smile gracing her face. She never gives up, you know?

He'd lost count of the number of times Yen ran laps around the apartment complex as he did his homework, stopwatch always in her hand. Everyone in the vicinity knew her because she'd train by running up the stairs. It sounds like her.

He thinks of the number of years it's been since he last saw Yen and realises he doesn't even know what her voice sounds like anymore.

"What do you do," he asks quietly, "when you don't know how to care for someone anymore?"

"What does care mean to you?"

His fingers rub together. "We're the only people who remember Dad anymore, you know? I thought she was replacing him, at first. But then I saw them together, and she's so much happier now, Han. Isn't that all that matters?"

His brother looks at him. A ghost of a smile is on his lips. The question, Jun knows, was not meant to be about his mother.

But his brother, he realises, has always known him better than he knows himself. "So don't you have your answer?"