"Yichen is getting married soon, isn't he? Jiang' family is discussing an engagement for him. Some kind of political marriage, I heard."

Your mother's voice drifts from the kitchen, casual and light. She's talking to your father about something mundane—wedding dates, venue bookings, political alliances. But to you, it feels like the ground has opened up beneath your feet.

Yichen. Jiang Yichen. The man who's been a constant in your life since before you even understood what longing meant.

You're twenty-two now, but when you close your eyes, you can still feel his hand wrapping around yours when you were ten—guiding you across busy streets, buying you strawberry ice cream even when you'd already had two. He was your youngest uncle's best friend, the one who showed up at family dinners with that quiet, composed smile. The one who ruffled your hair and called you xiao guai—little darling.

Twelve years older. Always just out of reach. You'd loved him before you even knew what love was. And now he's leaving.

You stop answering his calls. It's easier this way. Easier than hearing his voice and remembering that he'll never be yours. Easier than pretending you're fine when your chest feels like it's caving in.

He shows up anyway.

Of course he does.

You hear his voice downstairs—low, polite, asking your mother where you are. She laughs, says you've been moody lately. Teenage phases, she jokes. You're not a teenager anymore, but to them, you'll always be the little girl in pigtails.

He knocks. Soft. Patient.

"Xiao guai…I know you're in there."

You press your back against the door, biting your lip so hard it hurts. You can't do this. You can't.

"I brought your favorite" he says quietly. "The mango mille crepes from that place downtown. You always said they're the only ones that taste right."

Your throat tightens. There's a pause. A sigh.

"…I'll leave it here, okay? Eat it before it gets warm."

Footsteps fade. The house falls quiet again.

You slide down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest, and let the tears come.

Three days later, you're in the hospital. Stomach pain. Sharp, relentless. You've been skipping meals, crying too much, sleeping too little. Your body finally gave up. You don't tell anyone. You take a cab, check yourself in, get an IV drip. It's fine. You'll be fine. Except an hour later, the curtain to your bed pulls back—and there he is.

Jiang Yichen. Suit slightly wrinkled, tie loosened, hair a little messy. He looks like he ran here.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice is low, strained. Angry, maybe. Or scared.

You blink up at him, too tired to lie. "…How did you know?"

"Your uncle saw the hospital charge on the family account." He crouches beside the bed, eyes scanning you like he's searching for injuries. "You didn't eat, did you? Again."

You look away.

His jaw tightens. "You can't even stand properly and you didn't tell anyone. What if something happened? What if—" He stops himself, exhales sharply. "You're still just as stubborn as when you were little."

"I'm not little anymore," you whisper.

His expression softens. Just a fraction. "No. You're not."

He drives you home.

You don't remember falling asleep, but when you wake, your head is resting on his shoulder. The car smells like him—clean, faintly woody, familiar. Safe. You should move. You should sit up. But you don't.

He leans over to fasten your seatbelt, and suddenly he's so close. Close enough that you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

Your chest aches.

"Uncle Yichen…" The words slip out broken, trembling. "Please…don't go."

He freezes. For a moment, the world holds its breath, then his hand comes up—slow, hesitant—and rests gently on the back of your head.

"…I won't." His voice is barely a whisper. "Now just sleep, okay?"

You don't know if he means it. But right now, wrapped in his warmth, you let yourself believe.