The mornings were colder now. Syra stood by the studio window, shawl pulled close, watching the city stir. Below, vendors set up, engines rumbled to life, pigeons scattered from rooftops. But everything felt distant—like she was watching the world from underwater.
Three days. No word from Lou.
No notes. No gifts. No glances.
Silence.
She told herself he was working. That he was staying away out of respect. That they had both agreed to wait.
But something felt off.
She turned from the window, her eyes scanning the unfinished canvases, the mess of paint tubes and cold tea cups. Usually, the chaos grounded her. Today, it just looked... quiet.
Syra sat at her desk and began to sketch. She didn't plan the lines, just followed instinct. After a while, she realized she was drawing Lou's hands.
Not his face. Not his body. Just his hands.
The ones that had poured her tea. That had tied the bead around her wrist. The ones she hadn't held in weeks.
A knock came at the door. She jumped.
For a breathless second, she hoped.
Then Jia's voice: "Open up before I chew through this bag."
Syra opened the door. Jia swept in, carrying two large paper bags.
Syra raised a brow. "Will there ever be a day you come here without bringing food?"
Jia dropped the bags onto the table with a smirk. "I promised Lou Yan I'd fatten you up so you don't faint on your honeymoon. Have you seen him? Man is built like a statue. You're still built like a willow."
Syra laughed under her breath. "A starving willow."
"Exactly. Now eat."
They sat on the floor, cross-legged, like they used to in school. The smell of steamed dumplings and jasmine tea filled the space. For a moment, it felt normal.
Then Jia gave her a sideways glance. "You look tired."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
Syra smiled faintly. "I haven't heard from him."
Jia paused, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. "Since the dinner?"
"Not a word."
"Maybe he's buried in work."
Syra nodded, but her hand tightened around her cup. "I keep trying to believe that. But I feel it. Something's different."
Jia didn't speak right away. She just reached over and gently pushed another dumpling onto Syra's plate.
"If it were you," she said finally, "he'd feel it too. Maybe that's just love—hearing each other's silences." They didn't talk after that.
They ate in soft quiet, Outside, the sky shifted from gray to gold, and the shadows in the studio stretched longer.
Syra leaned back, gazing up at the mural Lou had painted across the wall—the same one he'd added to after each late-night visit, each lingering moment where he'd loved her without touching her.
Thirty-six days to go.
She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her knees.
Whatever was happening, she would wait.
Even if it hurt. Even if it made no sense. Because loving him meant enduring the silences too.
---
The black sedan idled half a block from Syra's studio, tucked between a florist and a closed tailor shop.
Lou sat in the back seat, wearing dark glasses despite the cloudy sky. He hadn't said much since Ming picked him up. In fact, he hadn't said anything at all—just murmured her address like it was the only language he could still speak.
From where he sat, he could see the warm light glowing through her third-floor window. It flickered faintly behind the curtain, interrupted now and then by moving shadows—one of them hers.
Ming sat silently in the driver's seat, hands resting on the wheel, eyes forward. He didn't ask questions.
Lou didn't move nor try to get out. His body was too worn down, like every inch of him was still recovering from a battle only he had fought.
But he needed to see that light.
That soft golden spill of her studio lamp. That was all he wanted.
He imagined her at her desk, head bent over her sketchpad, paint smudged across her fingers. Maybe Jia was still with her, judging by the occasional flash of animated gestures through the curtain. That was good. Syra needed laughter. Company. Someone to nudge her to eat when she forgot.
His chest tightened at the thought. He hadn't brought her tea in days. Hadn't texted her. Hadn't even looked her in the eyes since that night in her apartment.
He was trying to protect her from himself, from the unraveling inside him. But this—this distance—felt worse.
Thirty-six days left.
Thirty-six days of keeping himself together with string and silence.
Lou closed his eyes briefly, leaning his head back against the seat. His breathing was slow but shallow. He hadn't touched a real meal in two days. His sleep came in broken fragments. Even now, Ming had only agreed to this short drive after Dr. Hui approved it—on the condition Lou didn't step out, didn't speak, didn't strain.
So he didn't.
He just watched her window, and hoped.
When the light flicked off, he let out a slow breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He closed his eyes again and whispered, barely audible—
"Just hold on. I'm still here."
And even though she couldn't hear it, somehow, he knew—
she would feel it.