Their mornings had become quieter—no longer cold, but not quite warm either.
They'd made a truce, of sorts. Not lovers. Not enemies. Something in-between, suspended in a fragile peace. Coffee on the balcony. Polite conversation. No arguments. No confessions.
Lin Yuyan had started to smile again, but it never quite reached her eyes.
When Director Shen Rouyan called with the offer, Yuyan barely hesitated.
"A psychological drama," Shen said crisply. "Three months in Prague. Dark, unflinching, demanding. You'd carry the whole film."
Yuyan pressed the phone tighter to her ear. "When do we leave?"
"Three weeks. Are you in?"
Yuyan looked out the window. The city shimmered below her, but her gaze drifted toward the hallway—where behind one of those doors, Zhao Luchen sat at his desk, reading contracts in silence.
She turned back to her phone. "I'm in."
She told him the next morning.
"I'll be leaving in three weeks. Prague. Three months."
He didn't look up from his tablet. "Congratulations."
"That's all?"
A beat passed.
"I won't ask you to stay," he said finally. "It wouldn't be fair."
Her throat tightened. "And you won't come?"
"To the airport? No."
"I meant… later."
This time, he looked at her. And for the first time in days, there was something raw in his eyes.
"I don't know if I'd survive watching you leave again," he said. "So no. I won't come."
The days that followed were filled with packing, fittings, and script rehearsals. Yuyan buried herself in preparation, afraid of how empty she felt every time she caught Luchen watching her from the corner of a room.
He didn't stop her.
He didn't ask her to stay.
But every night, she'd find something left for her—a new travel adapter, European SIM cards, notes with translations, even her favorite plane snacks arranged in a silk pouch.
No signature. Just quiet, thoughtful care.
She never thanked him. She didn't know how.
The night before she left, he surprised her.
He threw a party.
Not for her. For the film crew of her last completed movie.
A private rooftop venue, every detail executed to perfection. Yuyan arrived late, still in costume from a press interview, and paused at the door.
Everyone was there—her co-stars, the director, lighting techs, even the grumpy makeup artist she'd grown fond of. There were toasts and photos and music. Fairy lights strung over the terrace flickered like stars.
But Luchen wasn't there.
She asked quietly, only once. Her assistant shrugged. "He arranged everything. But said he had work."
She nodded like she understood.
Hours later, she returned to the penthouse alone. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor.
His study light was off.
But a small envelope waited on the kitchen counter with her name in his handwriting.
Inside:
> "You'll set the world on fire, Yuyan.
I'll be here when the flames die down—
if you want me to be."
—L.
Her fingers trembled.
She didn't cry. She didn't run to his room.
She just stood there, clutching the note, wishing he had said it in person.
At the airport, her heart pounded all the way through check-in, security, and boarding.
She kept turning, expecting him to appear.
He never did.
As the plane took off, Yuyan looked out at the city lights shrinking beneath her and whispered to no one, "Don't disappear from me."
In Prague, the cold hit her first.
Then the work.
The role demanded everything—her sleep, her body, her soul. There were tears in the makeup chair, bruises from stunts, long nights of rehearsals and rewrites.
And still, in the quiet between scenes, she thought of him.
When she opened her suitcase and found an old photo tucked inside—a snapshot from the wrap party of her first film, her and her assistant laughing—she knew it was him.
Zhao Luchen never came.
But he was everywhere.
One evening, exhausted and aching, she stood on her hotel balcony and typed a message:
> "Still burning.
Wish you'd brought water.
–Y"
She hovered her thumb over send.
Then deleted it.
Thousands of miles away, Luchen sat in his dark office, her last voicemail playing quietly through his headphones.
She'd called the morning she left. He hadn't answered.
Now, he just listened to her voice on repeat.
"I'm going now," she'd said, trying to sound strong. "Don't… don't forget about me."
He never would.