That night, the world lay hushed and still. Yan Nuoya tossed and turned on her soft bed, sleep eluding her grasp.
Her thoughts drifted aimlessly, mirroring the endless darkness beyond the window. She couldn’t even pin down what was on her mind—just a heavy, suffocating weight in her chest, like a damp clump of cold cotton blocking her breath.
At last, she surrendered to her restlessness. With a gentle push, she threw back the covers and sat up.
Her bare feet touched the cool floor as she groped her way to the window and eased it open.
A chill night breeze swept across her face.
Gazing out, she saw the other buildings in the complex shrouded in darkness, their residents long since retired for the night. Only a few lonely lights flickered amid the thick gloom.
…She still couldn’t calm down.
Turning from the window, she decided to find a book to read.
Guided by memory, she shuffled toward the desk. But whether it was the pitch-black room, her unsettled mind, or both, her toe slammed squarely into the unyielding leg of the table.
“Ow!” A muffled cry escaped her throat.
The sharp pain made her leg jerk back instinctively. Combined with her forward momentum, she lost her balance and pitched ahead.
In her panic, she flung out an arm to brace herself on the desk—only for a dull thud as her elbow cracked against the edge.
Excruciating pain shot through her toe and elbow at once, surging like an electric current through her body.
Her vision blurred to black. She nearly passed out from the agony, her body slumping limply against the table leg until she slid to the cold floor.
Tears of pure pain welled up unbidden, pooling in her eyes.
She clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Her stuffy nose made every breath a struggle, so she forced down deep, ragged gasps, swallowing both her cries and her tears. All that remained was a faint, uncontrollable tremor wracking her frame.
In the darkness, she curled into herself, clutching her injured foot and arm.
Thank goodness the desk was solid wood, polished smooth with rounded edges and no sharp corners. Otherwise, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
Several long minutes passed before the suffocating pain began to ebb.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, enough to make out the vague shapes of the furniture.
With utmost care, she shifted toward the bed, gripped the edge, and hauled herself upright. Her fingers found the phone on the pillow.
She tapped the screen and activated the flashlight.
A harsh beam of white light pierced the room’s shadows, casting everything in stark relief.
Her eyes squinted against the glare. It took several seconds before they adjusted.
Now, with this makeshift illumination, the room’s layout sprang into clear view.
Her gaze drifted inevitably to the familiar wooden desk. The spot of impact still seemed to throb with phantom pain.
Yan Nuoya pressed her lips together, shoving down the inexplicable swell of grievance in her chest. Limping awkwardly, she made her way to the door and flicked on the main light with a click.
She returned to the desk, her fingertips tracing the desk’s glossy wood grain.
She had specifically asked Su Mengli and the others to leave this desk for her—it made it easy to read whenever the mood struck.
If she’d bumped into it, that was on her carelessness. Blaming the furniture? That would be absurd.
Her eyes scanned the bookshelf before settling on a volume of poetry. She slid it free.
Settling into the chair, she laid the book flat on the desk and opened it.
She wasn’t sure how long she read before pausing on a particular page.
Loneliness is a garden, but it harbors only a single tree.
Despair sprouts fingers, yet grasps naught but dead butterflies.
With a soul adrift in tedium, every hour I drain the lake of hope.
Of all times, why now…
She tried to lose herself in the words, letting them soothe her inner turmoil. But her heart only grew harder to still.
The night was utterly silent, yet she couldn’t summon her usual composure.
Irritated, she snapped the book shut. The aches in her toe and arm only amplified her unease.
She needed the bathroom, she decided.
A quick trip to the toilet, or splashing some water on her face—it might shift her mood.
She rose again, gritting her teeth against the pain, and shuffled out of the room, steadying herself against the wall.
The hallway stretched dark and silent, but the flashlight in her hand warded off any repeat mishaps.
When she emerged from the bathroom, however, an invisible thread seemed to tug at her. Her steps faltered to a halt outside Mo Xiangwen’s door.
She stood there in a daze, her fingers rising unconsciously. They hovered in the air, just an inch from the door.
Should she knock? Or not?
The thought had barely surfaced when reason reasserted itself. Her hand dropped as if scalded.
No… it was far too late. He was probably asleep by now—and he was still sick. He needed his rest.
For all she knew, she’d been the one to give it to him.
Yan Nuoya sighed inwardly, a pang of wordless disappointment and self-mockery twisting in her chest. She turned to limp away.
Click.
The door swung open without warning from the inside. Mo Xiangwen’s face, illuminated by his phone screen, appeared in the gap.
He had been fumbling toward the living room for a glass of water before hitting the bathroom, using his phone’s flashlight to guide him. Pulling open the door, he hadn’t expected to find a slender figure waiting outside.
In the faint glow, Yan Nuoya looked especially fragile in her white nightgown.
Her face was pale, her eyes faintly reddened, her silver-white hair tousled in a way that only heightened her allure.
Far from eerie, this midnight encounter struck Mo Xiangwen as ethereal. In her white nightgown, she seemed like an elf descended into the tranquil night—fragile, breathtaking.
No matter how many nights they’d shared the studio or how often he’d glimpsed her like this, he always thought it suited her best… even if he’d never seen her in anything else. It just felt right.
“Nuoya?” Mo Xiangwen blinked in surprise, his drowsiness evaporating. He looked at her with a mix of confusion and concern. “What’s wrong? It’s so late—are you looking for me?”
Yan Nuoya’s heart lurched, nearly leaping from her throat.
The sudden opening door and his steady gaze left her flustered, but she quickly seized on a plausible excuse.
“I… I bumped my foot and my arm,” she murmured, eyes downcast, a hint of embarrassment threading her soft voice. “Do you… have any medicine here?”
