The metro car shuddered along the underground rails, humming with the worn-out silence of hundreds of commuters. Fluorescent lights flickered against metal and glass. The scent of damp jackets, tired bodies, and engine grease filled the air like an invisible fog. Somewhere near the door, Yu Liang stood, clutching the cold pole with one hand, his sketchbook bag slung across his shoulder.
The city didn't sleep—it recycled. The same tired steps, the same faces blurred into new shapes. But today felt... different.
A rhythm tapped beside him.
Tiny, deliberate clicks. Fingernails. Painted a rich, iridescent blue that shifted with the motion of the train. Each tap was like a drop in a still pond, echoing deeper into Yu Liang's chest.
He turned, subtly, just enough to glimpse her.
She was seated on the inward-facing bench. One leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, her head slightly tilted as she scrolled. Her nails were long, almond-shaped, impossibly elegant. Her coat was beige, cinched at the waist, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a thin silver bracelet. She wasn't trying to be seen.
But Yu Liang saw her.
When the train jerked at a sudden stop, his knee brushed hers. She didn't flinch.
She glanced up.
Their eyes met.
Not an accident. Not awkward. Just... noted.
Yu Liang's throat tightened. He shifted back, apologetic, but she gave a faint smile. Almost imperceptible. Almost smug.
It lasted half a second. But the mark it left might as well have been carved.
He lowered his gaze. Let the blur of people around them fill the silence.
A voice from yesterday returned.
> "Not everything you want has to be rational."
He didn't know where it came from—DreamNode, a lecture, or his own buried desires. But it fit.
When he looked again, she was watching the reflection in the metro window, not him. Or maybe she was watching him through the glass. It was impossible to tell.
One stop later, she stood.
Her movement was graceful, paced like she was used to being watched but never bothered by it. She didn't look at him again.
She stepped off into the human river flowing through the station. And then she was gone.
Yu Liang remained.
He didn't follow. He didn't speak.
The train doors shut with a dull thud.
---
At home, silence greeted him like an old coat. The apartment still smelled faintly of the instant noodles he had abandoned the night before.
He placed his bag down, then sat at his desk. The sketchbook waited.
He opened it.
Fresh page. No pencil marks yet. Just the soft texture of possibility.
His hand moved slowly. First the curve of a wrist. Then the delicate slope of fingers. Then—nails.
Blue.
A color that should've clashed with the coldness of the city, but didn't. It cut through it. Like a signal.
He didn't know her name. He didn't need to. Not yet.
But the drawing was honest. Each line carried a thought he hadn't said, each shadow filled with the feeling he hadn't dared to admit aloud.
DreamNode pinged lightly.
> "Desire is not guilt."
Yu Liang stared at the message. He didn't remember installing that module. Maybe he had. Maybe someone else had.
But it was right.
---
Across the city, in a dimly lit apartment lit by a single warm lamp, the woman with blue nails removed her coat. Her bracelet clinked on the table.
She placed her phone down and looked toward her window.
She smiled to herself.
She remembered him, too.
That quiet certainty pulsed in Yu Liang's chest like a second heartbeat. He stood in the middle of his studio apartment, the soft hum of the city leaking through the cracked window. It smelled faintly of steamed rice and the leftover incense stick he'd lit out of habit earlier, trying to chase out the mustiness of long silences.
He hadn't even taken off his coat.
His sketchbook lay open on the desk, half-covered in graphite dust and smudged lines—evidence of the many false starts and restless hands. But now, his fingers traced the curve of her nails again, more precise this time. He didn't have to guess anymore. The line was memory now, not imagination.
She remembered him.
Not as a stranger, not as a face in a crowd. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, and maybe, if he dared to believe it, the beginning of interest.
He sat slowly, letting the thought sink in, like a stone into deep water. He didn't smile, not really. The city wasn't the kind of place that rewarded open joy too often. But his shoulders dropped, just slightly. Something had changed.
Across the street, a neon sign flickered, casting red against his window—汤包小馆—the dumpling shop with the woman who always forgot to count his change. Downstairs, someone shouted into a phone, angry and tired, the way people were after long days and cold meals. A baby cried two doors down. Life continued.
But Yu Liang stayed still.
He thought of her scent—that layered warmth of jasmine and sandalwood, with a thread of something like cinnamon. Something personal. Not perfumed but chosen.
Who was she?
His mind tried to reconstruct her—black coat, loose at the collar. Earbuds in, but only one. A light scratch on her knuckle, half-covered in concealer. Short hair, tucked behind one ear. Her shoes were clean. He remembered all of it now.
And her smile.
Not wide. Not flirty. But deliberate. Calm. As if to say, Yes, I see you too.
He should've said something.
His fingers paused over the sketch again. She had already moved to the exit when he found his breath. Words had formed on his tongue—stupid, simple things like Hey, excuse me or We've met before, haven't we? But his courage froze at the back of his throat. Just like it always did.
He hadn't expected her to look at him like that. With recognition. With stillness.
She wasn't in a rush. That's what haunted him most.
In this city, everyone moved like their lives depended on the next ten minutes. Rushing through train doors, clawing at time, gripping phones like lifelines. But she had paused. Just slightly. Enough to look him in the eye. Enough to leave a trace.
That kind of pause wasn't common. Not here. Not for someone like him.
He stood again. Poured himself tea. Burnt his tongue. Didn't care.
The walls around him seemed suddenly smaller. Cracked plaster, chipped tiles near the sink, old notes stuck to the fridge with curling tape. It had all felt enough before. He'd drawn people from memory, studied light as it fell on metal staircases, found beauty in the ordinary.
But now, the ordinary felt heavy.
He didn't want to be alone tonight.
Not in a desperate way. Just… aware. Aware of the weight of his own skin, the silence that followed him room to room. The thought of her made everything sharper.
Downstairs, the hallway light flickered out again.
He grabbed his coat and keys without thinking. The sketch remained unfinished on the desk.
Outside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts from a cart that never moved more than five meters. An old man stood there, as he always did, carving poems into red paper and offering fortunes for coins. Yu Liang passed him without a word, his feet moving on memory alone.
He rode the escalator down to Line 4, the same route. The same station where she'd exited.
He didn't expect to see her again.
He just wanted to stand where she'd stood.
He waited on the platform, letting train after train pass. He stared at the advertisements, the people, the rhythm of lives brushing past him.
He imagined her voice.
Would it be low? Precise? Did she laugh often, or was she one of those people who smiled quietly, as if afraid the world would demand something in return?
He wondered what kind of music she listened to with only one earbud in. Not a playlist. Something curated. Something meaningful. You don't wear blue nails and pause in a train unless you're deliberate with your choices.
The crowd swelled. Shrunk. Swelled again.
Eventually, he walked. Back toward the edge of the middle district. Through the vendor-lined alleyways, under sagging lanterns, past the wall with peeling posters of missing cats and discounted tutoring services.
He walked like someone searching for a thread he'd dropped.
By the time he returned home, his tea had cooled into bitterness. The city hummed its low lullaby of tires, sirens, and occasional laughter.
He picked up the sketch again.
And this time, he didn't draw her hands.
He drew her eyes.
Not perfectly. Not photorealistic. But honest. Calm, unflinching. A look that said: I see you, too.
He wrote no name under the drawing.
Not yet.
She had a name, of course. A rhythm to it. He just hadn't earned the right to know it yet.
---