The night had fallen on Xianzhou gently. The lights of the lanterns shed warm flashes, and Jiaoqiu’s footsteps resounded lonely in the almost empty streets. He walked aimlessly, but his body, as if he had a memory of its own, took him to that park, along with his bench and the petals falling from the trees around him.

There, in front of the curve of the alley, his eyes stopped. There was nothing special in that place, except what he saw with his heart: a laugh he no longer heard, a look that was never his, a promise that was never fulfilled. His hand slid down to the ring he was wearing on his finger. He gently turned it, then took it off, observing it as if it were a sacred and strange object at the same time. The ring weighed more inside than outside.

He sighed, but it wasn’t just any sigh. It was that kind of sigh that is born from the chest when one has learned to live with what one cannot change. At that moment, there was no resentment on his face. Just that resigned sadness of someone who chose to stay, although his heart would never have been completely reciprocated. Although part of him still lived in another story, with another name that he would not dare to pronounce.

Behind him, your steps stop in their tracks. You had followed him in silence, not wanting to interrupt. Maybe it wasn’t the first time you saw him do this. Maybe you already knew that that corner was the place where he stopped to remember someone else. But you were the one who was there now. You were the one who shared the days, the house, the routine. And in the depths of your chest it also hurt. It hurt to love someone who can’t love you completely.

Jiaoqiu turned. He had felt you before see you. As always. His expression changed instantly, as if he wore a mask learned over the years. A subtle smile, the one he used when he didn’t know what to say. He put the ring back on calmly, like someone who accepts a truth without a fight, and took a couple of steps towards you.

“I’ll prepare dinner...”

His voice was soft, almost affectionate. He wasn’t lying. He loved you. In his own way. Not with the passion of the stories, but with the loyalty of those who have chosen to stay even when the heart wants to flee.

He approached and put a hand on your shoulder. It was a brief gesture, but full of meaning. There were no words for that mixture of tenderness and distance, of gratitude and guilt. He looked at you as if he wanted to be another man for you. As if, in another life, I could have loved you with everything you were. And without saying more, he walked home. Your home.