Prince Shen Rui realized he was depending on Lin Yue
the day she did not come.
⸻
The morning passed without incident.
That, too, was the problem.
⸻
He arrived at the annex early—earlier than usual—documents tucked beneath his arm, movements precise, controlled. He placed the papers down, arranged them, and waited.
No footsteps followed.
The tea was not brought.
The chair across from him remained empty.
Prince Shen Rui frowned slightly.
Not irritation.
Not anger.
Displacement.
⸻
He told himself it was coincidence.
Lin Yue had always been deliberate.
Intentional.
Absence, when it came, would be the same.
Still—
He found himself glancing at the door more than once.
⸻
By midday, the realization settled quietly.
She had not come because she was not needed.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than if she had chosen not to.
⸻
Lin Yue spent that morning elsewhere.
She knew exactly where she was not going.
She was assigned to the southern service corridor, assisting with inventory checks—tedious, time-consuming, necessary.
She performed the task flawlessly.
And all the while, she measured distance.
Not physical.
Emotional.
⸻
She had noticed it too.
The way Prince Shen Rui waited now.
Not for news.
Not for instruction.
For presence.
It had happened gradually.
Silently.
Dangerously.
⸻
When she finished her assignment, she did not go to the annex immediately.
She sat in the courtyard instead.
Under the shade of an old tree whose name she did not know.
She listened to the palace breathe.
She reminded herself:
*Dependency is not survival.*
*Dependency is a narrowing.*
⸻
By the time she reached the annex, the sun had shifted.
Prince Shen Rui looked up instantly.
Then stopped himself.
"You're late," he said.
"Yes."
She placed the tea down.
He noticed her hands.
Steady.
"You didn't come this morning," he said.
"I know."
"Why?"
Lin Yue met his gaze.
Because this moment mattered.
"Because," she said carefully, "I needed to see what would happen if I didn't."
Silence fell.
Not hostile.
Exposed.
⸻
"And?" he asked.
She hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
"You waited."
He did not deny it.
⸻
That was the crack.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
But irreversible.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui leaned back slightly, fingers interlaced.
"That's inconvenient," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"For you," he added.
"For both of us."
She nodded.
"This is the part where things become dangerous," she said.
"Because I depend on you?"
"Because you might start mistaking me for something I can't be."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You are already something I can't replace."
The words were calm.
Measured.
They landed anyway.
⸻
Lin Yue felt her breath stall.
Not from longing.
From weight.
"This doesn't save you," she said softly.
"I know."
"It doesn't stop what's coming."
"I know."
"It doesn't even make it easier."
He considered that.
"No," he agreed. "But it makes it… possible."
⸻
They sat in silence.
Not comfortable.
Necessary.
⸻
That afternoon, Prince Shen Rui was summoned unexpectedly.
A meeting.
Last-minute.
Unclear purpose.
He rose.
Paused.
"Stay," he said without thinking.
Then stopped himself.
"…if you wish."
Lin Yue stood as well.
"I'll wait," she said.
Not *for you*.
Just—*here*.
⸻
The meeting lasted longer than expected.
Lin Yue did not leave.
She rearranged nothing.
Touched nothing.
She simply remained seated.
When Prince Shen Rui returned, his shoulders were tighter.
"They forgot to invite me," he said quietly.
She did not ask who.
"They remembered halfway through," he continued. "Someone said my name. The room went quiet."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"And then?"
"And then they continued without me."
She inhaled slowly.
"Are you angry?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Tired."
⸻
She poured tea again.
Her movements were slow.
Deliberate.
Anchoring.
Prince Shen Rui watched her hands.
"I don't remember when I started waiting for you," he said suddenly.
Lin Yue froze.
That sentence—
That was the danger.
"It wasn't supposed to happen," he continued. "I was prepared to be alone."
She looked up.
"You still are."
"Yes," he agreed. "But now I notice it."
⸻
The admission hung between them.
Not romantic.
Worse.
Honest.
⸻
"That's why I didn't come this morning," Lin Yue said quietly. "Because if I always come, you stop preparing."
He nodded.
"And if you never come?"
"Then you disappear alone."
Silence.
Then—
"Stay sometimes," he said.
She considered it.
Then nodded once.
"Sometimes."
⸻
That evening, the palace corridors grew colder.
Lin Yue walked back to her quarters with measured steps.
She opened the calendar.
**Eighty-eighth.**
It moved.
Of course it did.
⸻
She pressed her palm against the page.
Not to stop it.
To feel it.
⸻
The next day, she came early.
Not because he asked.
Because this was one of the *sometimes*.
Prince Shen Rui did not comment.
But his shoulders loosened when he saw her.
That, too, was dangerous.
⸻
They spoke less that day.
They did not need to.
Her presence did something words could not.
It stabilized the narrowing.
⸻
In the afternoon, an official entered the annex, confused.
"I was told this room was unoccupied," he said.
Prince Shen Rui stood.
"This is still my office."
The official hesitated.
Then nodded awkwardly and left.
Lin Yue watched the door close.
She felt the future tighten.
⸻
That night, she wrote again.
Not lists.
Not fragments.
One sentence.
*He notices when I'm gone.*
She closed the notebook.
⸻
The calendar turned.
**Eighty-ninth.**
Lin Yue lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
She understood now.
This was not about saving him.
This was about making sure he did not vanish *without witness*.
And somewhere between proximity and restraint—
Dependence had formed.
Not as love.
As gravity.
And gravity, once established,
did not need permission to pull.
That night, Prince Shen Rui dreamed.
Which in itself was unusual.
⸻
The dream was not of war.
Not of exile.
Not of blood or banners or screaming courtiers.
It was quiet.
He was sitting in the annex.
The door was open.
Light spilled in.
The chair across from him was empty.
⸻
He waited.
⸻
When he woke, his chest felt tight.
Not fear.
Recognition.
⸻
He sat up slowly, staring at the faint light creeping through the lattice window.
For the first time in years, the future in his mind did not arrive with images.
It arrived with absence.
⸻
Across the palace, Lin Yue woke at the same hour.
She did not know why.
She reached for the calendar out of habit.
It was still there.
Still indifferent.
**Eighty-ninth.**
She exhaled.
⸻
She dressed carefully that morning.
Not beautifully.
Not plainly.
Deliberately.
As if choosing the exact version of herself that would cause the least damage.
⸻
When she arrived at the annex, Prince Shen Rui was already there.
Standing.
Not seated.
He turned the moment she stepped inside.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
He nodded once.
They both knew neither of them had slept well.
⸻
They did not sit immediately.
For a moment, they stood facing one another, the space between them unfilled.
Lin Yue felt it then.
The shift.
Not desire.
Orientation.
Like two objects that had learned each other's position in the dark.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui broke the silence first.
"If you ever decide to leave," he said carefully, "tell me."
Lin Yue did not answer right away.
"And if I don't?" she asked.
"Then I will prepare myself," he said. "Badly. But honestly."
Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
"That's not fair," she said.
"I know."
⸻
She crossed the room and poured tea.
The familiar ritual grounded her.
Steam rose.
Cups aligned.
Prince Shen Rui watched without speaking.
"People think waiting is passive," she said suddenly.
"They're wrong."
He nodded.
"Waiting is a decision," he said. "Repeated."
"Yes."
⸻
She handed him the cup.
Their fingers brushed.
Accidental.
They both noticed.
Neither moved away immediately.
Not because they wanted more—
But because moving would acknowledge the moment.
And acknowledging it would make it heavier.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui released the cup first.
"Lin Yue," he said.
"Yes?"
"If history truly cannot change," he continued slowly, "what do you do when the end comes?"
She met his gaze.
"I stay until it doesn't make sense anymore."
"And then?"
"Then I leave."
"Alone?"
She nodded.
⸻
He looked down at the tea.
"That sounds unbearable."
"It is."
"Then why—"
She interrupted gently.
"Because unbearable doesn't mean meaningless."
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Dense.
⸻
Later that day, a servant hesitated at the annex door.
"Is His Highness… receiving?" she asked Lin Yue.
Lin Yue paused.
She was not supposed to answer that.
She should step aside.
She should defer.
Instead, she said calmly,
"He is."
The servant bowed and entered.
Prince Shen Rui heard the exchange.
Something settled in his chest.
Not relief.
Permission.
⸻
That evening, as Lin Yue prepared to leave, Prince Shen Rui spoke again.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you don't have to come."
She smiled faintly.
"I know."
"And you?"
"I might."
He nodded.
That was enough.
⸻
Back in her quarters, Lin Yue opened the calendar one last time that day.
She traced the edge of the page.
Not counting.
Remembering.
⸻
She wrote one more sentence beneath the previous one.
*He asks me to stay without asking me to stay.*
She closed the notebook.
⸻
Outside, the palace lights dimmed.
History moved forward.
And somewhere between restraint and closeness—
They both understood:
This was no longer about whether love would happen.
It already had.
Quietly.
In the act of staying.