Monday Morning.
The rain had stopped. But inside Shen Miao, the storm hadn't.
She walked into the office with practiced calm, dressed in an ash-grey suit, lips sealed in the kind of smile that said: You can look, but you won't see me anymore.
Gone were the soft glances.
Gone was the hope she had dared to hold last week — between the roses and unspoken words.
He Ran stood by the coffee machine, like he had every morning lately, waiting for her.
But today…
She didn't even pause.
Just passed him like he was another nameplate on the wall.
. . .
Irene walked into his office with the same smug confidence she wore like perfume.
"I think she got the message loud and clear," she said, setting a file down casually.
He Ran didn't even look up.
Silence.
She tilted her head. "I told her the truth—"
"You lied," he said.
The words dropped like steel — low, deadly calm.
Irene blinked. "I—I just thought—"
He finally looked up, eyes sharp, cold.
"You didn't send those roses. You didn't write those notes. I did. Every single one of them."
"I was trying to protect you!" she insisted, her smile now twitching, breaking. "She doesn't understand your world, He Ran."
"You interfered," he said, standing slowly, his voice like ice cracking. "Where you had no right."
Irene opened her mouth, but no words came out.
He stepped closer.
"And if she walks away from me because of your lie…"
His voice caught — just slightly.
"…I'll never forgive you."
There it was — vulnerability wrapped in fury.
"I waited too long once," he said quietly, eyes distant. "I won't lose her again because of someone else's cowardice."
"Cowardice?" she repeated, her voice rising, trembling with wounded pride. "You don't see what she'll cost you, He Ran. You'll ruin your image, your company—"
"I don't care!" he snapped, voice finally cracking like a thunderclap. "I care about her. Not boardroom whispers. Not public image. Her."
He turned away from her completely.
"We're done here, Irene. Professionally. Personally. Every way that matters."
She stood there for a moment — frozen, unblinking.
And then, like pride couldn't bear being shattered twice, she left without another word.
… …
Inside the Boardroom.
The team buzzed with talk about LUMIGO's next campaign.
Shen Miao's slides were perfect. Her voice, steady. Not a stammer, not a tremble.
But He Ran watched her fingers.
They kept folding the corner of her notepad — over and over — just like she used to do in school when something was eating at her.
He knew she was hurting.
And it was his silence that caused it.
When the meeting ended, he tried to catch her.
"Shen Miao, can we talk?"
She didn't even look at him. "I have a deadline."
"Please."
She finally glanced up — eyes cool, but distant. "About what? The roses? Or how Irene speaks for you now?"
His jaw clenched. "You know that's not—"
"I don't know anything, He Ran," she said softly. "Because you don't say anything."
Then she walked away.
And he felt that same helplessness from years ago — the day she asked, Will you say goodbye?
---
Later that afternoon, Irene slipped into He Ran's office like a shadow.
"You've been ignoring me," she said, perched on the edge of his desk.
"I've been working."
"Don't be like that," she said sweetly. "I was only trying to help."
"You lied," he said. "And now she thinks I hid behind you."
"She would've walked away anyway," Irene said, sharper now. "She's not like us. She doesn't belong in this world."
He turned toward her slowly.
"Don't ever speak about her like that again," he said — voice low, calm, and terrifying.
Irene stood, swallowing her pride. "You'll regret choosing her."
"I already regret not choosing her sooner."
And with that, he turned his back.
—
The office buzz faded as evening set in. Desks emptied, lights dimmed, and the sound of heels on marble echoed one last time.
Outside, the city breathed in neon — alive and indifferent.
Shen Miao stepped into the elevator alone, the silence pressing in like a second skin. Her bag felt heavier tonight, not because of the files — but the memories.
He Ran was waiting for her downstairs.
Not in a suit. Not with his assistant.
Just him — hands in his pockets, hair slightly messy, eyes tired.
Like the boy she once loved.
"Give me one minute," he said. "Just one."
She didn't move.
He reached into his coat and pulled out something.
Her heart skipped.
The book.
"A Sky Too Quiet."
He held it like it was breakable. Like it had saved him.
"I found it again last night," he said. "It still had the photo. And your note."
Her eyes filled — not with tears, but the ache of almosts.
"I meant every word I wrote," she whispered. "But I was too scared to say it out loud."
"So was I."
Silence wrapped around them like fog.
"Why now?" she asked.
"Because losing you again…" he said, voice rough, "…would be worse than never trying at all."
But she stepped back.
"I don't know if I can believe you this time."
And then she walked away.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… heartbroken.
Shen Miao's Apartment – That Night
Shen Miao had just tied her hair into a messy bun, a few strands falling over her cheek. She wore a loose white tee and black cotton shorts — simple, unbothered, and far too pretty for someone who was trying to forget.
The doorbell rang.
She froze.
No one ever came unannounced — except him.
Her heart sped up. Still, she walked to the door and opened it with cool detachment.
He Ran stood there, eyes stormy, hair slightly tousled from the wind, breathing like he'd run up the stairs.
"Shen Miao—"
She raised a hand. "Don't."
"Please, I just need—"
"I don't want to hear it," she said flatly. "Not about the roses. Not about her. Not anything."
She began to close the door, but he stopped it with his hand. In one swift motion, he stepped forward, grabbing her waist.
Before she could protest, the door clicked shut behind them.
"He Ran—!"
He pressed her back gently against the wall, holding both her hands above her head — not rough, but unyielding. Their breaths mingled, heartbeats thudding in the space between them.
"Listen to me," he said, voice low.
"I said I don't want to—"
"If you don't," he warned, gaze burning into hers, "I swear I'll kiss you."
Her breath caught.
For a second, neither moved.
Then, quieter now, he said, "I sent those roses. I wrote those notes. Irene lied because she saw what you mean to me. But I should've come to you sooner. That's on me."
She didn't speak, but her eyes shimmered.
"I miss you," he whispered. "And I'm not here as a CEO, or an old friend. I'm here because I'm still yours… if you'll have me."
His grip loosened, hands sliding down to her shoulders.
And then he hugged her.
Not demanding, not desperate — just... hoping.
Waiting.
She stood still, breathing in his familiar warmth, his scent.
Somewhere in her chest, a stubborn wall cracked.
But not enough.
With a sudden push, she pulled away.
His arms dropped.
She opened the door, eyes cold again. "You said your piece."
He looked at her, pain written across every inch of his face.
"Goodnight, He Ran."
She closed the door softly.
And leaned against it from the inside — hand on her chest, as if trying to hold her heart together.
Shen Miao's POV~
The door clicked shut with a soft finality.
She stood there, back pressed against it, breathing hard — as if the very air in the apartment had changed.
Seconds passed.
Then her fingers curled into fists, and the tears came.
Silent at first. Then unstoppable.
She slid down to the floor, knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms.
Why now? Why did he have to say it like that — so raw, so real?
She hated how much her heart responded to his voice. Hated how his hug still lingered on her skin like a second heartbeat.
She hated Irene more.
"I trusted her," she whispered, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand. "I thought I was over this. Over him."
But she wasn't. Not even close.
Because in the space between his words — in the quiet way he said I'm still yours — she saw it.
The truth.
He hadn't just come for closure. He had come for her.
And that's what made it harder.
She looked down at the old book on her shelf — his book. The one she never threw away.
She picked it up, holding it against her chest.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," she said into the stillness.
"But maybe… I believe you."
Outside, the hallway was empty.
But she didn't open the door.
Not yet.
—
The door closed behind him, soft but heavy — like a curtain falling on something he wasn't ready to end.
He Ran stood there in the hallway, unmoving.
His hand was still warm from where it had held her waist. His chest still carried the weight of her silence.
She had pushed him away — but not with hatred.
With hurt.
And that was worse.
He touched the door with his palm, leaning forward just slightly, forehead resting against the wood.
"Miao…" he whispered. "I should've said something sooner."
But there was no answer.
Only the sound of her quiet inside, like she was holding herself together — the way she used to after school, when her parents fought, and she'd hide behind her camera, capturing stillness instead of chaos.
---
Later That Night – He Ran's Apartment
He tossed his keys onto the counter and stood in the dim light, staring at the shadows on the floor.
He didn't bother changing. Just sat at his desk, elbows on the polished wood, fingers tangled in his hair.
The air was thick with unsaid things.
Then, almost by instinct, he reached into the drawer.
And there it was.
The book.
"A Sky Too Quiet."
His name still written inside. Faded. Almost forgotten.
He hadn't touched it in years — not since the week before he left for Beijing.
He opened the last page.
And there it was.
Folded behind the cover: a photo.
Them. Standing side by side under harsh school lights. Her in a blue dress. Him in black. His hand hovering just behind her back — like he wanted to hold her but never did.
Behind the photo… a note.
Her handwriting, slightly rushed:
> "If he reads this and understands it, maybe we'll never have to say anything out loud."
His throat tightened.
He had seen the book so many times before. But he had never opened that last page.
Until now.
And now… it was all too clear.
She had waited.
Silently.
And he had been too late.
Again.
—A Flashback Of 'His Book'—
She clutched the worn book tighter to her chest, fingertips brushing the faded edges.
"A Sky Too Quiet."
She remembered the day she found it — in the back of her locker during their final week of high school. He Ran hadn't said goodbye, hadn't left a note.
Just this book.
His name was written inside the cover in his neat handwriting. But what shattered her more was the folded page halfway through — a single line underlined in pencil:
> "Sometimes, love is loudest when it's never said."
She didn't cry that day.
She just stared at the book, trying to understand if it was a goodbye or a confession.
He left for abroad the next morning. No explanation. No closure. Nothing but the weight of that one silent message.
And from then on, it became the only thing that remembered her in his life.
Or so she thought.
Until tonight.