The week dragged on like wet silk — heavy, slow, and impossible to shake off.
Shen Miao had barely spoken to He Ran since the roses began. Since Irene.
Each time she saw them in the hallway, her chest ached like someone was turning the key she never gave away. And yet… she had to know the truth.
She found him alone one evening, just before a late meeting. The sun outside glazed his office windows in gold, but his expression dulled when he saw her.
"Shen Miao," he said, quietly hopeful.
She didn't smile. "I need to ask you something."
"Anything."
"The roses. The notes," she said, holding her voice steady. "Was it you?"
He looked at her — and for a heartbeat, something soft flickered in his eyes. "Yes, I—"
"Actually," a voice cut in, honey-sweet and sharp — Irene. She stepped into the room like she belonged there, eyes glinting.
"I sent them," Irene said smoothly.
Both turned to her, stunned.
He Ran stepped forward. "What are you talking about?"
"I knew you wanted to keep things professional," Irene said, facing Shen Miao now. "But you had all these feelings… and you told me you didn't know how to express them."
She turned to Shen Miao and smiled tightly. "He asked me to help — to make sure his message reached you without office gossip."
Shen Miao's heart dropped like a stone.
She looked at He Ran. "Is that true?"
He was silent. Too shocked. And in that silence — she heard her answer.
She nodded slowly. "Thank you for being honest."
Then she turned and walked out.
---
He Ran's POV~
He wanted to shout. To run after her. To drag Irene out and expose every twisted word she'd said.
But he couldn't.
Because Shen Miao didn't even look back.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything.
The sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway stayed long after she was gone.
He stood frozen, the weight of Irene's words still hanging in the air like smoke.
He hadn't said anything — not fast enough. Not strong enough.
Because he hadn't expected Irene to lie so cleanly. So confidently.
"I sent them."
No.
No, she hadn't.
And now, Shen Miao believed she had.
He turned slowly toward Irene, eyes dark.
"I told her the truth," she said, shrugging. "You were going to tell her eventually, weren't you?"
"That wasn't your truth to tell."
Her smirk faltered.
He stepped closer. "You knew what those roses meant."
"I thought you'd thank me," she said, flippantly. "Now she knows you cared."
"She thinks I used you to say what I couldn't," he snapped. "You've made her think I'm the kind of man who hides behind someone else."
He'd never looked at Irene like this before — with nothing but disappointment.
"You've crossed a line, Irene."
She lifted her chin, defiant. "You crossed it first when you chose her."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Because he had chosen her.
Long ago.
Later that night…
Shen Miao stood on her balcony, the cool wind brushing her face. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mother, another from LUMIGO's design team.
She ignored them all.
Because all she could see was that moment — when she asked a question with her whole heart… and got silence in return.
---
He Ran's Apartment — 1:12 AM
He was alone in his penthouse, lights dimmed, city blinking below like it had somewhere better to be.
The silence was loud.
He poured himself a drink — something aged, expensive — but it tasted like guilt. He set it down untouched.
On his desk was the old notebook again. He hadn't meant to take it out. It had just been sitting in the drawer, waiting.
He opened to the page with the folded note — the one she'd given him years ago during the high school fashion show.
Back when she was all soft blue dresses and quiet courage.
Back when he was too young to say: I think you're the one I've been waiting for.
His fingers hovered over the edge of the paper.
This time, he opened it.
> "If I ever walk beside you in front of the world, know that I already loved you in silence."
He stared.
And then he broke.
Not in loud sobs, not in rage.
But in stillness — a kind of collapse that starts from the inside.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy.
All this time...
All those years…
She had loved him.
Quietly.
Bravely.
Silently.
Just like he had loved her.
He walked to the glass window, looking down at the city.
He couldn't lose her again.
Not to silence.
Not to someone else's lie.
Tomorrow, he would make her listen.
Not just with words. With truth.
—Memories Flooded Back—
Her holding his sleeve at the school fashion show.
The way she looked at him under the library light, like he was more than just a boy with good grades and cold eyes.
Her laugh when they got caught sneaking into the auditorium early.
But they didn't come gently — they poured in like a storm, wild and sharp.
Suddenly, He Ran wasn't in his apartment anymore.
He was seventeen again, standing in the empty school auditorium.
It was quiet — long after the rehearsals had ended, the noise and laughter fading into the corridors.
She had stayed behind to fix a costume seam.
And he had stayed behind… because she had.
---
"You're still here?" he asked, stepping out from the shadows near the curtains.
Shen Miao looked up, startled, then smiled. "The zipper came off again."
She wore the blue dress — not designer or dazzling, just simple cotton with tiny, silver threads that shimmered when she moved.
"I liked this," she said softly. "Being on stage. With you."
He nodded. His throat was tight.
"I didn't think you'd actually walk with me," she continued, standing. "You hate these things."
"I don't hate everything."
He hadn't meant to say it like that.
She turned to him, confused. "Then why did you say yes?"
He swallowed. Hard. "Because it was you."
Her breath caught. For one second, silence fell between them — but this time, it was alive. Electric.
He stepped closer. "Miao…"
He should have said it.
He should have told her.
But he looked at her — standing there, hopeful and unsure — and his heart failed him.
He smiled instead. "You forgot your jacket."
She blinked, hurt flickering in her eyes for just a moment before she took it from his hands. "Thanks."
That was it.
That was the moment he could've changed everything — and he let it go.
The day he left — and couldn't even say goodbye.
He remembered standing at the airport gate, her contact open on his phone.
One message half-written.
> "Please wait for me."
He never sent it.
He thought it would be selfish.
Now… not saying anything at all might have been worse.
Back to the Present
He sat alone in his dark apartment, the city silent around him.
He clutched the note — her silent confession from all those years ago — and his eyes burned.
He could've loved her openly.
He could've stayed.
But he had left without a goodbye.
He whispered to no one:
"I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I didn't fight for you. But I'm here now. And I'll make you see me again… not just as the boy who disappeared, but as the man who never stopped loving you."