That night, Lan stayed alone in the room tucked in the farthest corner of the guesthouse.
The room wasn't big, but without the usual noise of Jie and Di, it felt far too empty. The ceiling unit creaked softly as it turned, and the cool air circled the walls before quietly brushing against her ear. Compared to the wild rush of their earlier adventure, the silence now felt almost hollow. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bare wall across from her, and for a moment, the stillness made her uneasy.
From the bottom of her luggage, she pulled out the diary she'd hidden again and again. The cover was worn, the corners slightly curled. She hadn't planned to write—just to flip through, maybe hear the familiar rustle of paper to fill the too-loud silence.
But somehow, her fingers landed on those pages.
Three of them, completely blacked out with thick lines of ink. She had scribbled them over and over, until the overlapping strokes felt almost violent, like noise scrawled across the paper. The force had even wrinkled the pages.
Her hand paused there.
That night… she had wanted to tear them out completely. To make them disappear without a trace. But for some reason, she hadn't.
She told herself the paper was too thick, that tearing them would ruin the whole book. But deep down, she knew the truth: she couldn't bring herself to erase them. Those memories—no matter how hard she'd tried to deny them—were still part of her.
Beneath the layers of ink were feelings she never dared admit: her vulnerability, her moments of losing control.
She turned the page, avoiding those memories, and found a clean sheet.
The tip of her pen hovered for a moment. Then, slowly, she began to write:
"At the train station, Jie pulled us away and said we were going to see the sea."
A small smile crept onto her lips, as if smiling just for herself. She continued:
"In the beginning, I only wanted to run away. A trip with the three of us—maybe it could bury all the unsaid things under tickets and schedules."
"But I've realized… running away doesn't really solve anything. If anything, it makes everything clearer."
She wrote about the kind elderly couple who gave them a ride, about the swaying sunset on the back of the truck, about the scent of wood in the little guesthouse, and Jie's sudden impulse to race toward the sea for no reason at all.
These past two days, she'd thought she was working hard to keep the three of them together. Smiling, talking, pretending nothing had changed.
But the more she tried, the more exhausted she felt.
Her pen stopped.
And then, a memory returned—clear and sudden.
After school that day, outside the classroom, Jie had leaned in and kissed her.
It was a soft kiss. As light as the breeze.
But she remembered it vividly, even now.
"Ah—so embarrassing!"
She slammed the diary shut and buried her face into the pillow, like she could hide herself from the world.
Her cheeks were burning. She let out a muffled groan and slowly rolled onto her back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.
The AC unit was still turning, the breeze brushing past her ears like a breath—like the sound of her own quietly pounding heart.
She touched her forehead. Still warm.
"…What do I do now?"
And then, she laughed softly to herself, like a girl who had just fallen in love. She hugged the pillow tighter.
And in her heart, she whispered—
"Good thing I wrote it all down."