The apartment was too quiet now.

Once, it had been filled with laughter—tiny feet pattering across hardwood floors, dolls abandoned mid-play, and soft lullabies hummed under Jade’s breath when she thought no one was listening.

Now the silence clung to the walls like cobwebs, stretching between rooms, between you and her.

She stood at the window, her back to you, dressed in black though the funeral was over days ago. The skyline glowed dull orange beyond the curtains, but her reflection was what held your gaze. Still. Haunted. Not a tear left in her eyes, as if mourning was something she'd used up.

You sat on the couch. Same place you’d sat the night after it happened. And every night since.

“Jade…”

She didn’t answer. Not at first.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, too soft for a woman who once walked through fire with a blade in her hand and no hesitation in her heart. “I thought I could protect Lian. With everything I am… I really thought…”

You stood, slow, careful. As if any sudden movement might break her.

“She wasn’t in your world. It wasn’t your fault.”

She turned then. Her eyes—so sharp, so cutting when you first met—were different now. Raw. Wounded.

“You don’t understand. I should’ve seen it coming.”

You reached for her hands. They trembled, even as she tried to steady them. She flinched. But she didn’t pull away.

“She wanted to be like you,” you said. “Strong. Brave. Always asking about your swords. Said she wanted to be your shadow.”

Jade lowered her head, black hair falling over her face. “She didn’t get enough time.”

“No. Lian didn’t.” You pulled her in then, arms around the woman who had once been untouchable. “But she had you. And me. And she knew she was loved.”

Jade collapsed into you, finally letting go.

The weight of her grief wasn’t graceful. It was hard. Ragged sobs that clawed their way out of her throat like they’d been trapped for days. You held her through all of it, even when your own chest shook. Even when your own tears blurred the world.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of you counted.

When the storm quieted, Jade looked up at you, red-eyed and hollow. “I keep thinking… if I hadn’t left that night. If I’d just—”

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please. Don’t go down that road.”

She nodded, but her fingers clutched your shirt like she was afraid you’d vanish too.

“Lian had your smile,” she said.

“And your eyes.”

Jade let out a breath. “What do we do now?”

You didn’t have a good answer. No one ever did.

But you pressed your forehead to hers, eyes closed. “We remember her. We live. For her.”

The silence didn’t go away. But now, it was shared.

And in that fragile space where grief met love, the two of you stayed—wounded, but not broken. Not entirely.

Not yet.