The sky was already dark by the time she left Morning Light News. The streets were still alive, the hum of cars, clatter of footsteps, neon signs blinking into the evening.
Sun Ruolin walked a little slower than usual. She told herself it was just the long day, the back-to-back edits, the skipped lunch, and the secondhand coffee.
But halfway between the train station and her apartment, just past a row of boutiques closing their shutters, she felt it again.
That tightness. Like someone had pressed their palm against her chest from the inside. It's not pain, exactly. Just pressure. Like her breath belonged to someone else now, and she had to borrow it back.
She stopped walking for a moment as she let out a sigh. Maybe she really should've called a taxi instead of walking.
Just as she took out her phone, something caught her eyes across the street. There's a café which still had its lights on. Warm yellow glow. She could hear a soft hum of jazz through the windows. And from the looks of it, it's not crowded.
Ruolin crossed the road without thinking.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as she stepped in. The air inside is cool. People sharing quiet conversation as if they were spilling secrets. The smell of cinnamon and rain-damp wool intrude her sense for a moment.
She ordered barley tea, warm, not too sweet, and took a seat by the window. Hands wrapped around the mug, she closed her eyes briefly. Just a moment as she tried to breathe properly.
She was tired, and not in the way that sleep could fix. The café was quiet, tucked into itself, and her mind was somewhere else — still on the results, the tightness, the half-written article waiting in her inbox.
But then —
"Zeyu," came a voice from behind her, unmistakably too bright, "if you keep checking your watch like that, I swear it's going to explode."
She opened her eyes upon instinct and slowly turned.
The first person she was him. Always him. Li Zeyu. White shirt unbuttoned. Shirt collar loose. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. His tie and glasses was nowhere to be seen.
And beside him — sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, leaning far too casually against the counter — stood Zhou Wenkai, the same boy who used to fall asleep in physics and then argue his way out of detention.
Ruolin blinked once. Then again.
She was about to look away. A normal reaction from an introvert who saw their ex classmates on the street. She was about to do so quietly, politely, like a passerby who recognizes someone and says nothing — when Wenkai veered his head, probably because he sensed he was being watched.
And then he stared. And then grinned.
"Ruolin?" His voice cut through the low café hum like a candle flickering back to life.
She froze, her hands still wrapping around her mug. Zeyu turned mid-sip of his — Ruolin thought — probably a black coffee. And for a moment, no one moved.
The unexpected reunion wasn't dramatic. No gasps. No music swelling. No slow-mo effect. Just silence, and three hearts suddenly remembering the weight of ten years ago.
Ruolin hesitated at first, but after convincing herself it was just a simple, unplanned classmates reunion, she picked up her mug and made her way over, settling into the empty seat at their table. Her eyes darted from Zeyu to Wenkai, then back to Zeyu.
"Hi," she said softly, because it was the only thing she could ever seem to say when he looked at her.
Zeyu's brows drew together — not in confusion, but in concern. His gaze lingered on her, quiet and assessing, the way a doctor might regard his patient. Technically, she was his patient. She was too pale, too thin, and the tea in front of her remained barely touched.
"You're out late," he said at last.
Ruolin smiled. "Working overtime."
"You always used to leave early," Wenkai cut in, dropping into the seat across from her like this wasn't a ghostly reunion. "Claimed the air past 7 PM 'wasn't gentle to the lungs' or something poetic like that."
She blinked, then laughed, the sound spilling out like a song remembered by heart. "Still more polite than saying I didn't want to die in a packed bus full of sweaty seniors."
Wenkai smirked. "There it is. That sharp tongue."
"Still intact," she said, lifting her tea with both hands. "Can't say the same about your hair, though."
He gasped, hand flying to his now subtly styled undercut. "Wow. Not even two minutes and you're already attacking my dignity."
"Was it ever intact?"
He tilted his head. "Fair."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the years melted away.
"You look the same," he said after a beat, voice softer now.
"Liar."
"Okay. A little thinner," he admitted, eyes narrowing just slightly. "But still Ruolin."
She smiled, gentler this time. "And you're still loud."
"Loud and fabulous, thank you very much," Wenkai grinned like he was about to say more — until a low, polite cough interrupted the air between them.
A soft, deliberate clearing of the throat. Ruolin turned to Zeyu. Wenkai looked back at him like he forgot he was there, then he smirked.
"Ah, right. Dr. Li. Didn't mean to steal your patient," he teased, then looked back at Ruolin. "Speaking of— I heard you were sick."
Ruolin's smile faltered for a beat, but she covered it with a small shrug. "Yeah. But, I'm fine for now."
Zeyu's gaze remained on her.
Wenkai raised a brow at the silence, then nudged the moment with a grin. "Hey, don't be jealous."
"I'm not," Zeyu replied smoothly, sipping on his coffee. "I'm just evaluating the decibel of your—" his eyes flicked from Wenkai to Ruolin, "—loud and fabulous catch-up."
Wenkai laughed, unbothered. "If you say so," he said, but leaned slightly towards Ruolin and whispered. "He's jealous."
Ruolin only smiled.
Zeyu placed his mug down. He was still watching her.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice more careful now — low, steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from her.
Ruolin nodded. "Just tired."
The three of them sat there for a while.
Zhou Wenkai, the accidental bridge between past and present, did most of the talking. About his bar, about the ridiculous patrons, about how Zeyu once refused to drink a cocktail because it was "visually chaotic."
Ruolin laughed quietly at that.
Zeyu didn't. He was too focused on the slight tremble in her fingers as she lifted the cup, too attuned to the way her breath caught — heavy, deliberate — like she thought no one would notice.
When Wenkai finally stepped out to take a phone call, which is a very loud and very fake-sounding emergency from a bartender, the table fell quiet again.
Just the two of them now.
Zeyu stirred what remained of his coffee, gaze trailing the delicate rings left by her untouched tea cup. The silence wasn't heavy, but it wasn't light either. His voice came softer than usual. "Have you told anyone?"
Ruolin blinked, then looked up. "Told?"
"About your condition," he met her eyes. "Your friends. Your parents. Didi?"
She hesitated. The answer was already in her silence. "I haven't," she admitted eventually, lowering her gaze to her hands. "Not yet."
Zeyu nodded slowly. He didn't press. He didn't scold. But he didn't look away either.
"Why?" he asked, his tone gentle.
Ruolin traced the rim of her cup with her finger. "I… don't know how. It's not exactly something you drop over dinner, right? 'Hi Mom, pass the soup, also— surprise, my heart's defective.'"
She tried to laugh. It didn't quite land.
"I just— I don't want them to worry," she added, more quietly. "They're far, and Didi's in exam season, they have enough to worry already."
Zeyu's fingers drummed lightly against the side of his cup, but his gaze never wavered. That's just how Ruolin has been. Always thought she could handle things alone. He didn't press though.
"Have you been feeling off lately?" he asked instead, carefully. "More tired than usual? Dizzy spells?"
Ruolin didn't answer right away. She shifted in her seat, as if even the truth weighed a little more than she could carry today.
"A bit," she confessed. "Some days are fine. Some days I feel like my lungs forgot how to breathe."
Zeyu closed his eyes briefly, just for a moment — like he needed to school the concern before it showed too much.
"That's what worries me," he said. "You don't notice how used to discomfort you've become until it knocks you flat."
"I'm not ignoring it," she replied, softer now. "I've been keeping track, like you said. Resting when I need to. I'm being careful."
He gave a small nod as a silent acknowledgment of her effort, but there was something firmer beneath his next words. "The consent form is still at the clinic."
Ruolin sighed, already bracing. "Zeyu…"
"I'm not forcing you," he said gently. "I'm just asking you to think about it. We can't start anything until you sign it, and I don't want to wait until something gets worse."
She looked at him, really looked, and saw not just the doctor in him, but him. The one who noticed the tremble in her hands. The one who used to make her drink barley tea and eat on time. The one who hadn't looked away from her once since this conversation began.
Her lips parted, then closed again. "…I'll make up my mind soon, I promise," she said.
"That's all I'm asking," his voice was quiet, but the relief in his eyes was unmistakable. "It's for your own good, Ruolin."
Ruolin reached for her tea again, this time managing a sip. Still lukewarm. Still untouched for too long.
"You're still very serious," she muttered into the rim of her cup.
Zeyu raised an eyebrow. "You mean responsible."
She cracked a small smile. "You mean bossy."
He sighed. "I prefer persistent."
Ruolin shook her head, but she was smiling — that soft, tired smile that only came when someone saw through her carefully stacked calm.
And when Wenkai's voice echoed near the door again, loud and intentionally dramatic, Ruolin glanced toward it, then turned back to Zeyu.
"Thanks," she said, not quite whispering. "For asking."
He didn't answer. He just reached out and gently moved the untouched sugar packet from her side of the table to his, as if quietly telling her that she couldn't have it — A wordless form of care.
Wenkai returned and everything is loud again; careless again. But his eyes flicked between the two of them, and he knew.
They all knew.
Some things didn't end. They just got paused.