CHAPTER 83
ARIA
Morning light spilt gently across the room, the kind that made everything look softer, kinder—almost like the world was offering a second chance.
I blinked awake, a small, involuntary smile curving on my lips as the warmth of last night washed over me.
For a moment, I just lay there, feeling… happy. Truly, stupidly, giddily happy. The kind of happiness I hadn’t felt in years.
Last night lingered in every breath I took, the comfort, the feeling of belonging that had wrapped itself around me like a blanket. A feeling I had missed more than I ever dared to admit.
My hand reached toward the bedside table to check the time, but instead of the cool surface of my phone, my fingertips brushed something familiar. I turned—and froze.
The rabbit lamp.
White ceramic.
A little scuffed. And the left ear—still missing. The same jagged edge, the same small imperfection I knew by heart.
A breath escaped me—half laugh, half gasp.
Not similar.
Not copied.
The same.
My thumb glided over the broken edge, tenderly, as if the memory itself were fragile.
The same one with the missing ear, the one that had survived years only because he refused to throw it away.
A soft laugh slipped from me, the kind that blooms without permission.
There it was—crooked, imperfect, a little broken… yet dearly cherished, just like us.
I traced the jagged edge where the ear had snapped off, and warmth unfurled across my chest, bittersweet and tender.
For a moment, it felt as though time folded in on itself—like I had drifted backwards into a memory I had never truly left.
I could almost hear his laughter again—low, playful, boyish—and feel the brush of his fingers fumbling with glue and tape, determined to fix what could not be fixed.
My heart tightened, not with pain but with something achingly sweet.
God, I had missed that version of him.
My thumb lingered over the broken edge, and the room around me began to shift.
The present blurred, replaced by the soft glow of our old apartment—the one that always smelled faintly of vanilla and old books.
.....
FLASHBACK
Lian sat on the edge of the couch, knees drawn up, wearing that exaggerated sulk he only ever used with me.
“You came home late,” he had said, voice quiet but threaded with accusation—the soft, childish kind meant only for someone special.
The moment I had entered, the scent of rain and coffee greeted me… along with a very moody Lian, curled up in his usual corner. I had set my bag down gently, trying to hide my smile.
“Hey,” I’d said softly.
Nothing.
“Hey,” I tried again, leaning a little closer.
Still nothing.
He was determined not to be offended.
“I’m sorry,” I had sighed, warmth rising in my chest.
“Work got crazy.”
At last, he looked at me, eyes wide with dramatic sadness.
“I waited… so long.” A pause.
“Now you must be punished.”
I raised a brow.
“Punished?”
He nodded with such solemnity it almost fooled me—almost. Then he broke, the tiniest spark lighting his eyes.
“You have to give me a kiss.”
I had rolled my eyes, fighting a smile.
“I’m exhausted. No kiss.”
He stood, that adorable, faux-serious frown pulling at his lips.
“I want my kiss.”
“No.”
“Kiss.”
“No.”
It only took seconds before he lunged, hands at my waist, tickling until laughter burst out of me uncontrollably.
We stumbled across the bed in a heap of giggles.
“Lian—stop!” I choked out between laughter, eyes wet from tears of joy.
The click.
Silence.
We both stared at the rabbit lamp… its ear rolling across the floor.
Lian crouched dramatically, lifting the tiny ceramic ear as though it were a fallen soldier.
The heartbreak on his face was so exaggerated I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“That was my favourite lamp,” he whispered, devastated.
"Favourite? You hated it,” I shot back, amused.
“Only because I said the rabbit was cute.”
He gasped, offended.
“No one is allowed to be cuter than me.”
I snorted. “Right. My mistake.”
“But… it grew on me,” he mumbled, holding the broken ear to the lamp and sighing hopelessly.
He demanded two kisses then—one for being late and one for breaking his “very beloved lamp.” I gave him both, cheeks warm, heart full.
He spent the whole night trying to fix it—glue, tape, a band-aid… nothing worked. Yet he tried.
And every failure only made him more adorable.
“Maybe it’s meant to be imperfect,” I had murmured, amused.
\---
The present tugged me back—my fingers still resting on the lamp—as if bridging who we were and who we had become.
I looked up…
And there he was.
Lian sat at the desk by the window, posture straight, eyes fixed on the documents in front of him. A man who looked composed, controlled… distant.
His hair fell slightly into his eyes, the morning sun outlining him in gold, and for a second, he resembled the boy I remembered—the one who once refused to sleep until my lamp was “healed.”
My chest tightened, a tender ache blooming beneath my ribs.
“Lian…” I whispered softly, not loud enough for him to hear, but needing to say his name.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to simply watch him.
Quiet. Still. Drinking him in like a memory I was terrified to lose again.
He looked exactly the same… yet nothing like before.
Older. Sharper. More guarded.
But the small details—those betrayed him.
The slight tilt of his head when reading something closely.
The way his fingers tapped the paper—twice—before turning to the next page.
The faint crease between his brows when he was worried or pretending not to be.
He was still my Lian.
Even if he wished he wasn’t.
The words slipped out of me without thought, barely a breath.
“We’ll always be together… right?”
He didn’t react.
I swallowed, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges. Louder this time, pretending it was light, casual, not a plea echoing from the deepest part of me:
“We’ll always be together… right?”
His body stilled—but he didn’t look up. Didn’t answer.
A quiet crack formed inside me.
He turned a page too quickly, and the paper sliced across his finger.
The cut was small, but the blood that welled up was too much, too steady, too wrong.
My heart dropped.
“Lian…” I stepped closer, voice barely holding.
“You’re bleeding.”
He pressed his thumb over the cut, casual… too casual. As if it were insignificant. But the blood didn’t stop.
It pooled, then trailed down the side of his hand, staining the page beneath it a deep, jarring red.
A chill ran through me.
He wasn’t healing.
Something was very, very wrong.
A cold weight settled in my chest.
“Lian…” My voice came out thinner than I intended, barely steady.
“Your self-healing… what happened to it?”
His hand stilled.
For a moment, he didn’t look at me. Didn’t move. Just sat there with his thumb over the wound as if sheer will could make it disappear.
I swallowed, stepping closer.
“It’s not working anymore… is it?”
Silence stretched—heavy, suffocating.
His jaw flexed once. Twice.
A faint tremor passed through his fingers.
Then, without lifting his head, he gave the smallest nod.
A single, clipped word followed, hollow and final:
“No.”
No explanation.
No comfort.
No trust.
Just a wall.
I forced myself to step back, to breathe, to gather the pieces of myself before they scattered.
“Fine,” I said quietly, dressing with mechanical movements.
“Pretend it’s nothing.”
He didn’t stop me.
The silence was deafening.
I reached the door, pausing—hoping, praying for even the smallest sign that he cared enough to call after me.
Nothing.
The click of the door closing behind me echoed like a final note to a song that once meant everything.
A beat later—
A thud shook the wall.
Then another.
A muffled sound—half a growl, half a broken exhale—escaped him.
Pain. Frustration. Something deeper.
Feeling.
The mask had cracked.
I opened the door again, quietly.
He stood with his back to me, fist still pressed against the wall, shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths.
Blood streaked across his knuckles, the skin already bruising.
He froze when he sensed me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I stepped inside gently, my voice soft—far too soft for the storm inside me.
“Silly,” I murmured.
Not accusing.
Not angry.
Just… aching.
Fond.
Like someone who had just found a piece of home they thought was lost forever.
Because despite the distance, the silence, the walls he built…
He was still Lian.
And I—God help me—was still his.