The early evening breeze drifted through Shen Tinglan's dorm window, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant chatter. Qinghe University was alive with the rhythm of student life—laughter, footsteps, the occasional sound of music—but Shen Tinglan stood apart from it all.
He sat at his desk, pen in hand, staring at the untouched page in front of him. The light from his desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the tidy arrangement of books, notes, and a small package on the shelf—the one he had sent just a few days ago.
The package had contained several books and a brief note:"For Yue. No need to reply."
It was all he could bring himself to say.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Lian Yue.
She had always been there. From the time she was a child, she had followed him everywhere—chattering, questioning, smiling at him with those bright eyes that seemed to see more than he liked. He had never asked for her presence, but it had become... familiar.
Now that she was gone, the silence felt heavier.
When she moved to the school hostel, he hadn't questioned it. It was normal. She was growing up, needing her own space, her own life. He had expected it, even thought it was for the best.
Still, the house felt different without her. Quieter, but not peaceful.
Liu Yuyan had called him last week."She's thinner," she said, voice gentle with concern. "I brought her some food. She says she's fine, but she never comes home anymore."
He remembered his response: "She's busy. Let her be."
He hadn't asked more.
Shen Tinglan stood and walked to the window. Below, students moved across the campus lawn, laughing, arms slung around each other's shoulders, books clutched loosely in hand. They looked young. Carefree. He felt strangely out of place among them, not because of age but because of something else—a quiet sense of distance, like he was watching life through glass.
That was how it had always been. He was built for silence, for discipline, for order. Not for emotional entanglements.
And yet, Lian Yue had unsettled that order, in her own quiet way.
He had noticed her change in the past year—the way she looked at him, the way she lingered in his presence as if waiting for something he didn't know how to give. At first, he thought it was just admiration, the way a younger sibling might look up to an elder. But then it became… something else.
There was a softness in her gaze, a kind of quiet intensity. It made him uncomfortable.
He hadn't spoken of it, hadn't acknowledged it—not to her, not to himself. But it was there. Unspoken, undeniable.
And that was exactly why he had chosen to leave things unsaid.
She was just a child.He had known her since she was small, trailing behind him in the garden, tugging at his sleeve, falling asleep beside him on long car rides. He couldn't—wouldn't—allow himself to think of her in any other way.
Whatever she felt, it wasn't love. It was dependence, gratitude, perhaps loneliness taking shape in the form of attachment.
He turned away from the window and sat back down, trying to focus on the textbook in front of him. The words blurred. His hand moved absently to his phone, but there were no messages.
Not from her. Not from anyone.
"She's probably busy," he told himself. "Or she didn't like the books. That's fine."
Still, something tugged at him.
He shook it off.
But even as he tried to rationalize it, a thought crept in: "She hasn't replied. Not even a simple thank you."
He frowned. Why did that bother him?
"She's been around for so long, of course I notice her absence," he thought. "That doesn't mean anything. She's like a younger sister. She'll forget me soon enough."
He wanted her to forget. It would be easier for both of them.
He had sent the books because it felt like something he should do—a final gesture, practical, impersonal. And yet, now, he wasn't sure why it felt so... empty.
There was no relief in the silence between them. No satisfaction. Only this quiet discomfort, like something had shifted and he couldn't quite define what.
But he wouldn't question it.
He didn't love her.
That was the truth. He knew what love was—or thought he did—and whatever he felt for Yue wasn't that.
It was habit. Familiarity. Nothing more.
He turned off the lamp and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind, usually sharp and focused, refused to settle.
"She'll move on," he whispered into the darkness, trying to believe it. "She'll forget whatever she thought she felt."
And if she did—if she disappeared from his world—he would be fine. That was the life he had chosen.