The apartment door clicked open.
Gu Ze Yan stepped inside, shoulders heavy from a long day, his mind still crowded with presentations and contracts. He loosened his tie and let out a breath. Silence wrapped around him, the kind that usually gnawed at his bones.
But tonight—like so many nights lately—the silence felt different.
Not empty. Not cold.
Warm.
He paused by the doorway, eyes drifting across the living room. It wasn't sudden, this change. It had crept in slowly, unnoticed, like sunlight slipping through cracks. But now, he could feel it everywhere.
This place no longer felt like a showroom apartment. It felt… lived in.
It felt like her.
The Vase
The first thing he noticed, weeks ago, was a small vase tucked into the corner by the window. Slim, plain glass. Inside, pressed wildflowers—delicate yellow petals and a green sprig, the kind you'd never find in a luxury store.
He hadn't bought it. He didn't even know where one could buy such things.
He had stood there for a long moment, frowning, before realization dawned.
Her.
He'd left it there. Weeks passed, and every morning, he found his eyes drawn to it, as though the flowers alone could remind him that he wasn't as alone as he thought.
The Kitchen Drawer
Another evening, searching for his wok, he noticed a new spatula. Then chopsticks decorated with tiny cartoon clouds.
Cartoon clouds.
He stared at them for a full minute, lips twitching. That was not Shen Qiao's doing—her taste was sleek, professional, never whimsical. Which meant only one culprit.
Sunny.
He had laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but when he cooked that night, he had reached for those ridiculous chopsticks first.
The Plants
The peace lily by the window had been dying, drooping in silent protest of his neglect. But now—its leaves shone a deep, healthy green, stretching as though reborn.
And there was more. On the balcony, a small clay pot had appeared, a tiny sprout pushing bravely through the soil.
He crouched once, touching the damp earth with his fingers, imagining her slender hands pressing the seed into the soil.
"You," he whispered to the sprout, "are luckier than me."
The Fish Tank
The fish had once floated dull and lifeless. Now, every time he passed, they darted to the glass, shimmering in the light. The water sparkled, the tank spotless.
A sticky note clung to the side:
Don't get lazy. Even fish need love.
He'd read it three times, chuckling despite himself. He hadn't thrown it away. Couldn't. It was still there, curling slightly at the corner, but to him it was more valuable than the stock certificates locked in his safe.
The Notes
It became a game of discovery.
On the coffee tin: Don't drink too much, or you'll lose sleep.
On the inside of his laptop case: Stretch sometimes.
On the bathroom mirror, faintly curling from the steam: Bosses need to smile too.
Each note in her neat, small handwriting, each one with that playful curl at the end.
He collected them in silence, like treasures.
Groceries and Snacks
The snack drawer had once been empty. Now, sunflower seeds sat neatly beside almond biscuits. He'd eaten both in one night, muttering to himself that he didn't even like sunflower seeds.
The fridge told the same story. Boxes of milk, vegetables, eggs—all labeled with dates.
On the top shelf, a bottle of vitamin C tablets. A sticky note again: Bosses get colds too.
He pressed the cap open, shook one tablet into his hand, and swallowed it with a wry smile.
Realization
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud.
But these small things whispered her presence in every corner. And slowly, like water seeping into cracks, she filled his life.
The apartment wasn't just clean. It wasn't just functional.
It was warm. Breathing. Alive.
Her. Always her.
And it hit him one night as he stood on the balcony, the city stretching beyond him. He turned back to his living room—once sterile, now softened with invisible arms.
It wasn't just his anymore.
It was theirs.
The Balcony Night
He lingered by the railing, staring at the peace lily thriving under the moonlight. His chest ached.
He thought of her smile—bright, stubborn, but brighter still when it was just for him. He thought of her laughter, bubbling when he made a fool of himself just to see it. He thought of her warmth—so steady, so unintentional.
When had she slipped into his life like this?
He closed his eyes, whispering to the night, "Sunny… when will you realize? You're already home to me."
The Restlessness
Sleep eluded him. He sat on the sofa, scrolling through their old WeChat messages.
Don't forget lunch.
Good luck with your meeting.
You said you'd sleep early, did you?
Simple words. Casual. To anyone else, ordinary.
But to him—they were priceless.
He typed and deleted the same three words: I miss you.
His thumb hovered. He wanted to send it. He wanted to tell her everything—that his apartment carried her shadow, that his life had bent itself quietly toward her.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, he locked his phone, leaned back, and whispered, "Soon."
The peace lily rustled, as though agreeing.
Days blurred—meetings, trips, long nights.
But every time he returned, the apartment waited.
A scarf folded neatly on the sofa. A new mug in the cupboard. Groceries stocked. Plants watered.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud.
But it wrapped around him all the same.
And each time he saw her—each time she smiled that sunny smile—he felt the truth press harder against his chest.
This wasn't fake. Not to him.
Not anymore.