Morning light filtered softly into the bedroom, casting a warm glow over the room. Feng Mian sat cross-legged on the floor, an open box beside her and a few file folders scattered around. Papers surrounding her in a messy circle, a collection of moments and achievements, each page holding a fragment of her past.
She had been at it for quite some time, carefully sifting through each and every document. She didn't know exactly what had come over her when she woke up to find herself alone in the apartment, Han Chen already gone. Maybe, just maybe, she was looking for some kind of validation—proof that she was worth something, that she wasn't just a shadow fading into the background of someone else's life.
With that thought lingering in her mind, she had opened the box and pulled out everything she had accumulated in her twenty-four years of life. Diplomas, certificates, awards… things that once held meaning but now felt like relics from a different lifetime.
Feng Mian stared fondly at the certificate in her hand, the edges slightly worn from years of being tucked away. She remembered how excited she had been back in school when she entered a writing competition. Writing had always come naturally to her, perhaps because, for much of her childhood, it had been her only outlet. Her grandfather was the only family she knew, and with no siblings or close friends nearby, she often filled up diary after diary with her thoughts and feelings, pouring herself onto the pages.
But as she sat here now, surrounded by memories, those dreams seemed distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. How can a person change so much? she wondered, a faint ache settling in her chest. It was as if the girl who once loved words and stories had been buried beneath years of silent compromise and unfulfilled hopes.
After a moment, she carefully put the certificates and papers back, stacking them neatly and shoving the box onto the upper shelf of the wardrobe. As she was closing the door something caught her eye, a small leather pouch lying near the box.
Curious, she pulled it out and opened it. Inside, she found passports and a set of plane tickets. Her eyes widened slightly as she glanced at the destination. The tickets were dated for a week from now.
Feng Mian looked down at the tickets in her hand, her fingers tracing the printed destination and date. Why even bother? she thought, a dull ache settling in her chest. Why did every gesture, even something as big as a trip, feel so distant and disconnected from her?
With a sigh, she placed the tickets and passport back in the pouch and returned it to the shelf, closing the wardrobe door firmly. She needed to talk to him, to finally confront the silence that had settled between them. But thinking back, she realized she hadn't even seen him properly in the past two days. Whenever she tried to reach him, he was either out or buried in his own world, unreachable.
Having made up her mind, Feng Mian changed into fresh clothes, brushed her hair back, and grabbed her bag. She couldn't wait around any longer. She would seek him out herself.
With quiet determination, she stepped out of the apartment and hailed a taxi, giving the driver the address to his office.
On the bustling sidewalk, Feng Mian stood in front of Han Chen's office building, gathering her thoughts and courage. What needed to be done should be done, she reminded herself, taking a steadying breath. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped through the revolving doors, her footsteps firm as she crossed the spacious lobby.
Approaching the receptionist's desk, she gave the young woman behind it a polite nod. "Hello, I'd like to see Han Chen," she said, keeping her voice calm and even.
The receptionist glanced at her, a bit taken aback. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her tone professional.
Feng Mian's lips tightened, but she replied smoothly, "I don't need an appointment to see my husband."
A flash of surprise crossed the receptionist's face, and she shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Oh… I'm sorry, Mrs. Han. Mr. Han is currently in a meeting," she stammered. "Would you like to leave a message?"
Feng Mian shook her head, her voice steady. "No, I'll wait. Please let him know I'm here when his meeting ends."
The receptionist nodded, still a bit flustered, and gestured to the waiting area. "Of course. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable."
Feng Mian stepped into the elevator, her gaze fixed on the changing numbers as she ascended to the top floor. When the doors slid open, she walked out into the quiet hallway leading to Han Chen's office. As she approached, she noticed that his secretary's desk was empty, a sign that he must be in the meeting with Han Chen.
Taking a breath, she hesitated for only a moment before pushing open the door to his office. The room was spacious and neatly arranged, filled with the faint scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something sharp, clean. It felt strange being here without him, almost as if she were intruding.
She took a few steps in, her eyes drifting over the polished desk, the neatly stacked files, and the view of the city through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence felt heavy, almost unsettling.
She had been here two or three times before, each visit prompted by some urgent matter, yet the space still felt as unfamiliar as its owner. The cold, minimalist decor, the carefully organized desk, the absence of anything personal—everything about this room screams Han Chen's distant, guarded nature.
A faint sound of throat clearing broke the heavy silence, pulling Feng Mian out of her thoughts. She turned, startled, her gaze landing on a figure seated casually on the leather sofa facing the wall window.