Syra stepped out of the car into the cool evening air, her palms damp inside her clutch. The city lights blinked like lazy fireflies, and the restaurant ahead gleamed in quiet opulence. Lou had picked this place before—one of those quiet corners where no one asked too many questions. Tonight, though, it felt clinical. Like a surgical table prepped for dissection.
She adjusted the thin straps of her deep blue dress, the one he liked—he had once run his fingers down her shoulder and called it a ribbon of moonlight. But there was no trace of that Lou now.
He was already seated when she entered, back straight, hands folded neatly. He rose when he saw her, pulling her chair out with practiced grace, but not warmth.
"You're early," she said, sitting.
"So are you," he replied, then smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
The waiter came too quickly, as if they were being spared from having to talk. They ordered, barely glancing at the menu. When the waiter left, silence took the seat between them. It wasn't tense, not exactly. It was hollow. Cold. The kind of silence that forgets how to be gentle.
"You're tired," she said after a while, tracing the rim of her glass.
"A bit," Lou answered. "But I wanted to see you."
His voice was soft, reverent even. But it only deepened the ache inside her. Because he was right here, and yet he wasn't.
"You don't have to force yourself," she said. "We could've had dinner some other time."
"I didn't force myself." He looked at her then, and for a second, the curtain lifted. Longing. Guilt. Hunger. It flashed across his face like lightning, gone too fast for thunder to catch up.
"Then why do you look like you're sitting across a landmine?" she whispered.
Lou swallowed, then looked down at his plate. "Because I am."
That was it. The first real thing he'd said all evening.
Syra set her fork down. Her appetite had already slipped out the back door.
"Do you think I'll break you?" she asked, not bitter, not angry—just tired.
His eyes met hers. "No," he said quietly. "I think I will."
The food came. They picked at it like strangers forced into a polite date. He reached across the table once—maybe out of habit—and took her hand. She let him. His fingers were warm but stiff, like he was afraid of what would happen if he held on too tightly.
A laugh tried to bubble up in her chest. It came out as a half-smile. "So this is what waiting looks like," she said. "An expensive meal and holding hands like we're fourteen."
"I'd rather hold your hand forever than lose myself for a night," he said, and it was so sincere, so painfully him, that she almost forgave the ache he left behind.
But almost wasn't enough.
"I miss you," she whispered. "Even when you're sitting right in front of me."
He didn't answer. Just held her hand a little tighter and lowered his gaze.
----
The sky cracked open with a slow drizzle as Syra walked back to the studio. She didn't call for a driver. She needed the quiet. The air. Something to carry the heat off her skin—the heat of words unspoken, of a hand held too lightly and a love that trembled instead of touched.
By the time she reached her door, her dress was damp, her curls clinging to her neck like vines. She didn't change. Just dropped her bag on the floor and went straight to the drafting table like a sleepwalker.
It welcomed her with its usual chaos—graphite dust, old mugs of forgotten tea, a half-burnt candle, and sketches of Lou Yan. So many sketches.
Some were soft, intimate. Others were unkind. Sharp lines. Harsh shadows. She had drawn him as a god and a ghost, a storm and a statue.
She sat. Picked up her pencil.
But it wasn't a sketch that came this time. It was a letter.
Lou,
I wish you'd stop worshipping me like a relic you're not allowed to touch. I'm not glass, Lou. I won't shatter. But I'm starting to feel like a museum piece—admired but roped off.
She crumpled the page. Wrote another.
Some nights I miss you so badly I paint with my eyes closed just to feel your face again. It helps until I open my eyes. Then it hurts.
Another one.
I hate how careful you are. I hate how I love it too. I hate that you think distance is reverence. It isn't. It's loneliness in disguise.
Syra wrote five more before her fingers gave up. Pages scattered around her like wilted petals. The wind pushed one toward her feet, brushing her ankle. She let it stay.
The door creaked open behind her. She didn't look.
"I brought baozi," Lin's voice sang. "And dumplings. And a gallon of kombucha I will never drink."
Syra didn't answer.
Lin stepped in, dropped her bags, and blinked at the war zone of letters and sketches. "Oh no. You've been brooding. Were tears involved? Did we cry onto paper again?"
"Only a little."
Lin picked up a letter, squinted, and read aloud. "*'I'm not a relic, Lou.' Damn, girl. You are so dating a monk."
Syra groaned, face pressed into the table.
"I swear, the two of you are like two magnets who can't decide if they want to kiss or kill each other."
"I don't want to kill him," Syra murmured. "Just maybe throttle him. Gently."
Lin flopped onto the couch, tossing dumplings onto the table like peace offerings. "You know what you need?"
"Enlightenment?"
"A distraction." She waggled her brows. "Preferably shirtless. But I'll settle for wine and dumplings."
Syra sighed, sliding the closest baozi toward her. "I'm trying, Lin. I'm trying to be patient. Respectful. Reverent, even. But I feel like I'm being erased."
"You're not," Lin said. "He's just… Lou. Slow, silent, emotionally constipated Lou."
Syra laughed. It came out cracked but real. She needed that.
Lin leaned forward. "You need to remind him you're here. You're not a symbol, Syra. You're not a vow or an oath or some sacred mountain he has to climb. You're a woman. His woman."
"And what do you suggest?"
Lin grinned. "We kidnap you tomorrow. Jia's idea. You're painting yourself into a corner. Time to get out, touch some grass, eat real food, remember who you are."
"I thought you said dumplings and wine."
"We'll bring those too. And maybe get you to stop dressing like a tragic heroine from a Zhang Yimou film."
Syra looked down at her inky robe and smudged cheeks. "…Fair."
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was hushed. Syra stared at her scattered letters, then picked one up and folded it carefully. She tucked it into her journal without reading it again.
"I won't send them," she said softly.
"Good," Lin said. "Because the last time you sent him something vulnerable, you almost married a Buddhist statue."
Syra laughed again. And this time, it didn't crack.