The first thing Shen Yue noticed was the faint scent of jasmine, though she couldn't remember placing flowers in her bedroom. The air carried a crispness, untouched by the usual perfume of baby powder or the lingering warmth of Anya's sleepy embrace. Her hand shot out instinctively, searching for the small body that should be curled beside her, but her fingers brushed only the cool cotton of a bedsheet.
Her breathing hitched, shallow and rapid, as the unfamiliar familiarity of her surroundings began to solidify. The posters on the wall—bright bursts of pop idols and movie stills—seemed to hum with color, their edges sharp in a way her tired eyes hadn't seen in years. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar, revealing a row of clothes she hadn't worn in what felt like a lifetime: vibrant, youthful, utterly impractical. Her gaze fell to the floor, where a pair of white sneakers sat, laces tangled in a way that irritated her younger self but now struck her as heartbreakingly innocent.
Her chest constricted, a fluttering at the base of her throat that made her press a hand to her neck. The rhythm of her heartbeat was erratic, as if it couldn't decide whether to race or stop altogether. Her fingers trembled as they touched her cheek—smooth, unlined, a stranger's face she hadn't worn in years. Blinking, she turned toward the small desk against the far wall, where a clunky flip phone sat charging, its screen blinking softly in the dim light.
This is… before?
The thought came unbidden, like a whisper from a dream just out of reach. She sat upright too quickly, her head spinning as if she'd stood up after days of fever. The thin cotton of her pajamas clung to her damp skin, and she became acutely aware of the faint hum of the ceiling fan above her, its gentle motion doing little to cool the heat rising in her chest. Her legs swung off the bed, her bare feet brushing against the worn rug that she hadn't seen—or thought about—in years.
Am I dreaming?
Her fingers curled against the edge of the mattress, grounding her as the memories surged. The rooftop. Lin Hao's quiet smile, the way his hands had gripped the railing as if it were the only thing tethering him to the world. The unspoken words she'd been too blind to see, too caught up in her own hurt to hear. The fall.
Her stomach clenched, a knot tightening so fiercely she doubled over. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, the sensation raw and unfamiliar. But then it came—a flicker of something small, fragile, and alive.
The Sterile Dawn
The doctor's office was almost aggressively sterile, a sharp contrast to the whirlwind inside her. The walls were a blinding white, the faint hum of fluorescent lights mingling with the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Shen Yue sat stiffly on the examination table, the crinkling paper beneath her thighs amplifying every shift of her weight.
"Congratulations," the doctor said, a warm but distant smile on her face as she glanced at the monitor. "You're about six weeks along. Everything looks normal."
The words hung in the air, disjointed from the world Shen Yue knew. Six weeks. The timeline clicked into place, and the weight of it pressed down on her chest. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her seat, her nails digging into the cool metal. Anya. This was the beginning of Anya.
She stared at the ultrasound screen, at the faint, blurry flicker that pulsed with a rhythm too small and too fast to be her own. Her breath caught, the sound of it shaky in the quiet room. The doctor said something else—reassurances, instructions, details—but Shen Yue barely heard her. All she could focus on was that flicker. That heartbeat.
It wasn't just hers anymore.
The Architecture of Betrayal
Back in the quiet of her apartment, the enormity of it hit her all at once. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands pressed flat against her thighs as if to steady herself. The room seemed too small, the walls closing in with a suffocating kind of intimacy she wasn't ready for.
Why me? Why now?
Her mind spun, the questions tumbling over themselves in a chaotic loop. Her fingers brushed against her stomach, hesitant and unsure, as if touching it might make it more real. But it already was real, wasn't it? Anya's heartbeat, faint and flickering, was proof enough of that.
But what about Lin Hao?
She squeezed her eyes shut, the memory of his face surfacing with a vividness that made her chest ache. She could see him so clearly: the way he smiled when he thought no one was looking, the quiet strength in his hands as he worked, the weariness in his eyes that she'd ignored for far too long.
Why didn't I see it before?
The question burned, and with it came the answer she'd been too afraid to face. She hadn't seen it because she hadn't looked. She'd been too wrapped up in her own world, her own pain, to notice the cracks forming in his. She hadn't heard the quiet cries for help in his silences, hadn't understood the weight he carried until it was too late.
But now… now she could.
It started small, the way most things did. A whispered comment here, a seemingly harmless suggestion there. Zhao Mei's voice, soft and sweet, carried just enough weight to sow doubt without arousing suspicion. Chen Rui's laughter, bright and carefree, masked the subtle barbs hidden in his words.
At the time, Shen Yue had thought nothing of it. She'd laughed along, brushed off the comments, trusted the people she thought were her friends. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, she could see the pattern forming.
Zhao Mei's "helpful" advice, always framed as concern, had chipped away at her confidence. Chen Rui's "jokes" had planted seeds of doubt that grew into silent arguments and unspoken resentments. Together, they had built a wall between her and Lin Hao, brick by brick, until the distance between them had become insurmountable.
But not this time.
Shen Yue's jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. The weight of her second chance settled over her like a heavy, unyielding cloak, but there was a strength in it, too. She wouldn't let them win. Not again.
The Vow
Later that night, long after the city had gone to sleep, Shen Yue sat at her desk, the glow of the small lamp casting soft shadows across the room. In her hands was a photo—her favorite photo of Lin Hao.
It was from their wedding, taken during a rare moment of quiet between the ceremony and the reception. He wasn't looking at the camera, his gaze fixed on something just out of frame, but there was a softness to his expression that made her breath catch even now.
She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb, her chest tightening with a mix of longing and resolve.
"This time…" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness. "I won't let him suffer alone."
The promise hung in the air, heavy and unbreakable. For the first time in years, Shen Yue felt the faint stirrings of hope. And for the first time in this second life, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could save him before it was too late.