Zihan returned to the hotel late that night.
The corridor lights were dim, the carpet soft beneath his steps. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the room was quiet—too quiet. His friend was already asleep on the other bed, breathing steady, unaware of the storm quietly unfolding in Zihan's chest.
Zihan didn't wake him.
He went straight to the bathroom, washed up in silence. Cold water ran over his hands, over his face, but no matter how much he splashed, his thoughts refused to clear.
When he finally returned and lay down on the bed, exhaustion should have claimed him instantly.
It didn't.
The moment his back touched the mattress, the world tilted—
And she was there again.
The mountain path.
The uneven stones.
Her weight against him.
Her arms had been looped around his shoulders, light yet trusting. Each time she shifted even slightly, her breath brushed against the side of his neck—soft, warm, unguarded.
Zihan closed his eyes.
That warmth had seeped straight through his skin.
Every breath she took had felt like a quiet whisper against his pulse, sending an unfamiliar tremor through him. His ears had burned, his breathing had grown uneven, yet he had forced himself to walk steadily—careful, controlled—afraid that even the smallest misstep might betray what his heart was doing.
Steady… just steady, he had told himself then.
He had been afraid.
Not of the path.
But of how easily she unsettled him.
Another scene followed.
The dining table.
The soft clink of chopsticks.
The way she had silently placed a piece of chicken into his bowl, then lowered her head as if she hadn't done anything at all.
As if his heart hadn't skipped a beat.
A faint smile touched his lips even now.
He didn't want to forget.
Not a single moment.
Zihan sat up abruptly.
The room was dark except for the faint light from the bedside lamp. He reached for his bag, pulled out a slim notebook—his diary, one he rarely touched—and a pen.
Sitting at the desk, he began to write.
The first meeting—
The road, the accident, her calm hands, her clear voice as she admitted him into the hospital.
Then the warning—
Her telling him not to meet her again.
The emptiness that followed—
Two days that felt strangely hollow, as if something precious had slipped from his grasp before he even realized he was holding it.
Then seeing her again—
The relief.
The warmth.
The happiness he hadn't bothered to name, yet couldn't deny.
His pen moved faster, ink filling the pages, as if afraid the memories might escape if he paused.
By the time he finally set the diary aside, his fingers were sore, his chest heavy—but calm.
He lay back down, eyes lingering on the ceiling.
The clock read 2:00 a.m.
Only then did sleep come—slow and gentle—
carrying with it the warmth of a mountain path, a quiet breath against his neck,
and a feeling he didn't yet understand…
but already knew he would never want to lose.