The days blurred together in quiet monotony. Class, library, academic clubs, late nights. Lian Yue barely noticed the passage of time, yet the ache of his absence lingered like a shadow she couldn't shake. It wasn't a sharp pain anymore — it was dull, constant, like the hum of silence after a storm.
Every morning, she passed the hostel's main corridor, where a crowded bulletin board displayed announcements. She never paid attention to it. But today, a photograph caught her eye. She stopped mid-step.
"Qinghe University: Annual Academic Awards Announced."
Her heart stumbled. She took a slow step closer.
There it was — his name.
Shen Tinglan – Awarded Qinghe University Research Excellence Grant.
A neat photo accompanied it. He stood among professors and scholars, holding a certificate, his posture straight, dignified. That familiar expression — unreadable, calm, detached — stared back at her.
Lian Yue's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
He looked… the same. But everything around him had changed. This was his world now — polished, brilliant, and far removed from the quiet garden afternoons and shared books of the past.
A group of hostel girls walked past her.
"Isn't that Shen Tinglan?" one of them whispered, pointing at the board. "I saw a post about him. Qinghe's star scholar. He's famous now."
"He looks so cold though," another girl giggled. "Definitely the rich, untouchable type."
They moved on, their laughter echoing down the hall.
Lian Yue stared at the photo for a long time. The knot in her chest tightened. To them, he was a name, a face, a symbol of prestige. To her, he was — had been — something else entirely. Someone whose quiet presence once made her feel seen, even without words.
Now, he was gone. And she had chosen to stay away.
That night, she sat at her dorm desk, the light from her lamp casting soft shadows on the worn pages of her textbook. But the words blurred and danced, refusing to stay still.
On the shelf beside her, untouched for weeks, sat the small parcel of books he had sent. She pulled it down slowly, her hands trembling.
The top book still bore his note.
"For Yue. No need to reply."
Her fingers traced the handwriting, familiar and sharp. She had read it over and over, trying to find meaning in its simplicity. Had he meant it as kindness? As distance? As closure?
She didn't know.
All she knew was that this — this brief, impersonal gesture — was the only thread connecting her to him now.
A week passed. Her grades came in — top of her class again. Professors praised her, classmates admired her from afar, whispering about her intelligence, her dedication.
"She's going to skip another year, probably," they said. "She's a genius."
No one knew the truth — that she wasn't chasing excellence, she was running. From what, they didn't ask. From whom, she didn't admit.
Even Liu Yuyan's messages had become less frequent. Perhaps she sensed the wall Lian Yue had built. Or perhaps, she was giving her space — space Lian Yue had once desperately needed, but now... now it felt like a cold emptiness she had crafted with her own hands.
One evening, walking back from the library, she took a longer route, cutting through a small park near campus. The path was lined with fallen leaves, their crunch beneath her shoes the only sound in the quiet dusk.
As she turned a corner, she heard soft crying.
A small girl, no older than four, sat on the edge of a bench, her face streaked with tears. "Mama…" she whimpered, looking around, lost and frightened.
Lian Yue froze. The scene tugged something deep within her.
She knelt beside the child. "Are you okay? Where's your mother?"
The girl pointed toward the far side of the park, where a woman stood, panicked, searching.
Lian Yue took the child's hand — tiny, trembling — and walked her over. The woman rushed forward, scooping her daughter up with tears of relief.
"Thank you, thank you so much!" the mother cried.
Lian Yue smiled faintly. "She was just a little scared."
She turned to leave.
That night, she sat by her dorm window, watching the sky. The stars were faint, scattered, like distant memories.
She remembered a different night, years ago, when she had gotten lost in the Shen family's garden. She had cried just like that little girl. And it was Shen Tinglan who had found her, silently offering his hand, his calm presence anchoring her in that moment of fear.
Back then, she thought he'd always be there.
Now, she wasn't a child anymore. No one would come find her if she got lost.
She looked at the book again, his note still resting on top.
"No need to reply."
Her eyes stung, but no tears fell. She was too tired. Too hollow.
"I'm still lost," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "But I chose this, didn't I?"
No one answered.
And the silence — once filled by his quiet presence — now echoed back, empty.