The sky was soft with early light, painted in pale blues and shy golds. The kind of morning that held its breath — waiting.
He Ran arrived at the office before anyone else. The silence was sharp, almost reverent. The usual corporate hum hadn't begun. Even the security guard gave him a surprised nod.
He walked slowly down the hall, each step echoing louder than he expected. His heart felt heavier than his briefcase — but steadier than yesterday.
In his hand, he held the book — old, worn, and now unbearably precious.
When he reached the marketing department, the floor was still empty. Her desk was neat as always, her pen aligned perfectly with the corner, her coffee mug turned slightly to the left.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then, quietly, he placed the book on her desk — spine facing her, photo tucked inside the back cover just where she had left it all those years ago.
No sticky note.
No grand gesture.
Just the truth, returned gently.
He hesitated.
Then from his pocket, he pulled out a white rose — fresh, not wrapped. No note this time.
He laid it on top of the book.
It was silent forgiveness. A soft confession. And maybe... a beginning.
He stepped back, looked once more, and walked away without turning back.
Meanwhile...
She was still in the elevator — heart heavy from a sleepless night, hands clenched into her coat pockets.
She didn't know yet that something waited for her.
Something quiet. Something that remembered her — even when he had forgotten how to show it.
Shen Miao arrived later than usual. Her eyes were tired, rimmed with the weight of a sleepless night. She wasn't even sure why she came in—maybe habit, maybe the need to feel normal. Maybe just to see if he had come to work at all.
Her feet stopped cold at her desk.
The book.
The rose.
Her breath hitched.
She stared at them, unmoving. The cover of the book was weathered, soft from years of holding. And when her fingers trembled as they opened it, the photo inside slipped free. A photo of the two of them, blurry and sunlit, taken during their last school festival. He had held the camera out; she had been laughing.
She hadn't seen that photo in five years.
Her throat closed. Her hand covered her mouth.
Slowly, she picked up the rose. Its petals were still dewy, fresh as if just plucked.
He remembered. Everything.
---
Later That Day
He Ran sat in his office, drowning in numbers that made no sense.
There was a knock.
He looked up.
Shen Miao stood in the doorway, the book in her arms, the rose in her hand.
She didn't speak.
He didn't move.
She stepped inside and gently placed the book and flower on his desk.
"I still hate that you left without a goodbye," she said quietly.
He nodded once. "I hate it too."
A pause. The air between them was full of old ache and fragile hope.
"But I loved that book," she whispered. "I used to read the same paragraph every time I missed you."
His voice cracked. "Which one?"
She looked up, tears swimming in her lashes. "'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'"
He swallowed.
"Let me be responsible for you again, Shen Miao," he said. "This time, I won't leave."
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't say no either.
She stepped closer.
Their eyes met — a language only the heart could understand. Slowly, she reached out and touched his cheek with trembling fingers, her touch feather-light.
He leaned into it, like a man starved of warmth.
Then she kissed him.
It was the kind of kiss that made the world tilt — slow, trembling, unforgettable. Like two hearts finally exhaling after years of silence. Her lips were warm against his, soft but certain, carrying every missed word and buried feeling between them.For a second, the room disappeared. No office. No pain. Just them.
He tasted the ache of her heartbreak, the forgiveness tucked behind it. She felt the strength in his stillness, the sincerity in how he didn't pull her closer — he let her come to him. Her hands curled against his collar, and his breath caught in his throat. His hand moved to her waist instinctively, grounding himself like he might float away.
It wasn't fiery, nor desperate. It was soft — like an old promise remembered. A slow dance of emotion, of things unsaid finally finding a voice.When she pulled away, his forehead rested gently against hers.
"I'm still angry," she whispered.
"I'll wait," he murmured.
Her hand slid into his. "Don't make me wait again."
He nodded, their fingers interlocking.
And for the first time in years, hope felt real.
—Flashback – The Night Before He Left High School—
It was past midnight when he slipped the book into her locker.
No note. No signature. Just the book, and the hope she'd understand.
He had meant to tell her everything that night — after the fashion show, when they stood backstage, flushed from the lights and applause.
She had looked at him like she finally saw everything he never said aloud.
And he… panicked.
Not because he didn't feel the same.
Because he did.
Too much.
He had already packed by then. His parents had made the decision. He was leaving in two days.
So he left the book behind — his last trace.
And disappeared.