He stared at his phone for a long time.
The contact name still read "Xiaoyu 🌸" a remnant from when she was seven and insisted on picking her own emoji. Today was her birthday. Eighteen. He hadn't seen her in three years.
His thumb hovered over the call button. His heart beat in his throat.
He tapped it.
The dial tone didn't even reach his ears before he hit end. Coward.
He remembered the last real conversation they had years ago, during one of her weekend visits. She'd found one of his short stories lying on the kitchen table, read a few paragraphs, and asked with those big, curious eyes, "Why are your stories always about sad people, Baba?"
He hadn't answered her then. Not really. Just ruffled her hair and said, "Because sad people have the most to say."
Now he stared at the silent phone in his hand and whispered to no one, "Where did it all go wrong?"
He felt it then like a punch in the ribs. A mix of sorrow and fury. Fury at himself. At the manuscript. At the world that kept moving without him.
A ringback tone jolted him. He looked down. Unknown number. He didn't answer.
"Would you like anything else?" the waitress asked gently, the same girl from earlier.
Li Wei shook his head. "No. I was just leaving."
And he meant it. Not just the café. The whole thing.
He walked out into the cold with his hands clenched in his coat pockets. The manuscript felt heavier in his bag now. Like it knew.
He didn't cry. But he wished he could.
The walk home was quieter than usual. Even the city seemed to be holding its breath.