Here you are again, sitting in the quiet of the museum, when the world sleeps and only the silk pages stand witness to your secrets. In your hands, soft silk, upon which you write words of love you dare not speak aloud. Your fingers trace the Chinese characters with precision, as if afraid that emotions might betray you.

"Love is a silent wind, Passing through the window of the soul, Whispering softly, only for you."

You hang the silk sheets delicately under the dim museum lights. The night wraps the place in its calm, and you disappear as you always do, leaving behind your words and dreams.

But you don’t know. You don’t know that he comes every night. He stands silently before your writings. He reads, he reflects, as if the words are calling his name.

His dark eyes wander through the meanings. "For whom are these poems written?" He asks himself every time. Why does it feel like they were written just for him?

And you don’t know. You don’t know that this man—the one who always stirred your heart when you saw him walking through the university halls— Is the very same man who comes here, Reading your words, Wishing to see you, just once.