"You can only carry silence for so long before it crushes you from the inside."
⸻
The butler stood silently by the door, a matte white box, the size of a jewelry case on his hand. No lock. No label. Just one thing written in black ink, neat and small:
"Randoms."
Inside, hundreds of cards — 3x5 inches, cream-colored, some edges worn.
Xue Ning, still recovering, gave a small nod.
That was the signal.
The old man placed it gently into Xue Zhen's hands.
Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
He hadn't expected the box to weigh much.
It was light. Ridiculously light.
And yet every card felt like it could collapse him.
Each one dated. Each one handwritten.
And as he shuffled through the first few, Zhen realized:
She never shared any of this with anyone.
Not even him.
He drew the first one.
🗓️ Year 14, Day 112
Jue snuck strawberry milk into the executive fridge again.
I blamed Minjie when Grandpa asked.
Minjie didn't deny it.
That's friendship, I guess?
⸻
🗓️ Year 16, Day 20
First time scolded by Mr. Yuwen.
Said I didn't pour tea with both hands.
Grandpa Rui was watching.
I was more afraid of him than Mr. Yuwen.
Still am.
⸻
🗓️ Year 12, Day 86
Zhen's banquet.
Everyone was proud of him.
I was too.
Maybe now that he's Dominant, he'll punch Bo if Bo insults me again.
Or not.
But still — proud.
⸻
🗓️ Year 17, Day 4
I don't think I belong anywhere.
But I'll try to be useful anyway.
⸻
🗓️ Year 15, Day 31
Mr. Yuwen made lotus soup.
I asked if it's okay to call him Uncle now.
He didn't answer.
That's an answer, I guess.
⸻
🗓️ Year 20, Day 2
Liyan taught me how to file taxes "like a true monster."
He said it builds character.
I think he just enjoys watching people suffer.
I liked today.
⸻
🗓️ Year 25, Day 91
Tried red lipstick today.
Jue said I looked like I was ready to sue someone.
I smiled.
Felt like I could.
⸻
🗓️ Year 23, Day 40
He passed me the calculator today without me asking.
That's the kindest he's been in weeks.
I think I annoyed him again.
He didn't say anything. But he didn't leave, either.
I guess that's enough.
⸻
His fingers twitched.
He didn't even remember doing that.
Didn't remember her face that day.
But she had.
She always did.
⸻
🗓️ Year 21, Day 61
Zhen looked tired.
I made coffee.
He said thanks.
Then corrected my grammar.
I smiled like I always do.
I think he prefers silence to small talk.
⸻
Zhen closed his eyes.
He had always been tired, yes.
But now, reading her quiet effort in such simple lines,
he realized—
She had been trying all along.
And he never once truly saw her.
⸻
🗓️ Year 29, Day 102
Zhen doesn't smile much.
But when he talks about numbers, his voice lifts a bit.
I wonder if I ever made him feel that way.
Probably not.
But I'm happy just hearing him be happy.
⸻
A deep breath.
He stared at the wall.
The air felt thinner.
Zhen's thoughts:
"I thought I was different from Grandpa.
But no—
I ignored her, too.
She smiled at me and I gave her silence.
She gave me loyalty and I gave her deadlines.
She gave me all this...
And I never even said her name like it mattered."
⸻
His hands trembled.
The box remained full.
He was only ten cards in.
And already, his chest felt like something had broken.
Not cracked.
Broken.
⸻
Zhen pulled out a pale blue card, almost buried in the middle.
The handwriting was hers—neat but slanted, like she wrote it in a rush.
He frowned.
"Summer House?"
He looked up.
Ning, still pale on the bed, caught his eyes.
She didn't speak.
But her lips curled into a soft smile—
and her eyes shimmered, like she was begging him:
Read it. Please.
So he did.
⸻
🗓️ Year 17, Day 144
I arrived at the summer house today.
The wind smelled like mangoes and wet cement.
I remembered that time we were betting if the storm would come, and Old Zhen joked about being struck by lightning because he was "too bright for this world."
I laughed so hard I almost dropped my noodles.
I felt safe.
And warm.
Like maybe I could belong somewhere.
Like maybe he'd let me.
That night, I didn't dream of mom and dad.
⸻
Zhen's fingers gripped the edges of the card.
"Summer house..." he whispered again—this time, not a question.
But an urgent desire to recover a long-lost memory.
⸻
The next card was pale pink, the ink faded at the edges. Zhen almost skipped it, but something about the way her handwriting slanted downward made him pause.
He read aloud, voice low:
🗓️ Year 16, Day 142
I pretended to be excited to go.
But I vomited twice in the airport.
The dorm nurse said my condition was manageable.
I didn't believe her.
I miss my friends. My cousins, too.
Well, not the other one.
But I'm not allowed to be selfish.
Beta girls don't cry over missing people.
Zhen stopped.
The room went very still.
He read that last line again.
Then again.
Beta girls don't cry over missing people.
It wasn't just a sentence.
It was a script.
A mantra.
Something she had been told until she learned to say it herself.
His thumb brushed the corner of the card; the paper was soft from being handled too much, like she'd pulled it out over and over in a place where no one could see her.
He had assumed it was just another lonely year abroad—books, part‑time work, maybe some mild illness.
He had never imagined this.
Not like this.
The pink card trembled slightly in his hand as if it carried the weight she couldn't.
His chest tightened until breathing felt like swallowing glass.
Ning watched him silently from the bed.
Her lips pressed together, her eyes unreadable.
Zhen closed the box of cards slowly, like setting down something breakable.
The sound of cardboard meeting wood was deafening in the quiet.
His fingers stayed on the lid.
His head bowed.
He had no idea the girl beside him had survived her own quiet war—
and that every smile she'd given him after was, in its own way, a scar.