The house was wrapped in a damp silence, the kind that only comes after long nights. The lights of the neighborhood flickered faintly through the window, as if trying to spy on what two friends kept between the walls.Xiaoqing dropped her bag on the chair, kicked her shoes into the corner, and sighed with theatrical exaggeration:— Look… I don't know if that was dinner or a scene from a romantic movie. Because honestly, that was anything but normal.
Yuyan, still holding her coat folded in her arms, sat on the edge of the bed. The faint scent of jasmine tea seemed to linger on her skin. She lowered her eyes, as if she wanted to hide inside the fabric.— Don't exaggerate… — she murmured. — It was just dinner.
— Just dinner? — Xiaoqing arched her eyebrows, stepping closer. — He cooked for you. Played the piano. Then took you outside to look at the stars. If that's "just dinner," imagine when he actually decides to make an effort.
Yuyan hugged the coat tighter against her lap. The blush rose to her cheeks, as inevitable as the memory of Wen's gaze.— I… I don't know what to think.
Xiaoqing sat beside her, resting her chin on her hand, patient and sharp all at once.— You don't need to think. You need to feel. This man is not the type to waste gestures. If he looks at you, it's because he truly sees you. If he touches, it's because he wants to say something he can't put into words.
Yuyan slowly lifted her face. In her eyes, a timid gleam, like someone holding a secret still without a name.— And what if it's just my imagination?
— Then let it be — Xiaoqing replied firmly. — Better to live an impression that might bloom than to let a certainty that never came wither away.
The silence once again covered the room for a moment. Yuyan took a deep breath, hugging her knees. A small, but growing courage stirred inside her.— Xiaoqing…— Hm?— Would you… help me choose a gift for him?
Xiaoqing's wide smile broke across her face, almost triumphant.— Finally! — she gave her friend's leg a light slap. — Of course I'll help. But I'm warning you: it can't be just any gift. It has to carry you inside it.
A brief laugh slipped from Yuyan, laced with nervousness.— I was thinking of something… simple.— Not simple. Meaningful. — Xiaoqing stood up, already energized. — Tomorrow we're going out. And I won't rest until we find the perfect gift.
Yuyan looked at her, conspiratorial. For the first time that night, she smiled without hesitation. Deep down, she knew: it wasn't just about a gift. It was about the courage to offer someone a part of herself.
The next morning, the city breathed the approaching cold. The wind slid through the streets like a herald of winter, lifting dry leaves that swirled in silence. Yuyan adjusted her coat, walking beside Xiaoqing along sidewalks lined with glowing shop windows.— You're not escaping today — her friend declared, with the energy of someone who already had a plan. — We're going to find the perfect gift.
They entered a winter clothing store. Racks hung with rows of scarves in every color: red, blue, beige, moss green. Xiaoqing, brimming with excitement, pulled at each one, analyzing, commenting.— This burgundy one would be striking… — she held a soft fabric up to Yuyan's face. — But I think it's too flashy. He suits something more… — she paused, thoughtful. — …intense in silence.
Yuyan wandered to the back of the store. Her fingers stopped on a dark fabric, dense, absorbing the light from the window instead of reflecting it. A black scarf. Simple at first glance, but with a softness that seemed to hold warmth in just the right measure.
She ran her hand slowly over the fabric, as if testing not only the texture, but also the feeling it stirred within her. For a moment, she imagined Wen wearing it — the black against his fair skin, the glasses catching the winter light, his gaze as deep as always.— This one. — Her voice came out low, but firm. — This is the one.
Xiaoqing crossed her arms and smiled, half serious, half amused.— You do realize you're conspiring with winter to win him over, right? A black scarf, classic, enveloping… This gift is practically a hidden confession.
Yuyan lowered her eyes, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She didn't answer. She only held the black scarf close to her chest, as if protecting a secret.
When they left the store, the cold wind brushed against Yuyan's face. She gripped the bag tightly in her hands and, for a moment, let her imagination drift: Wen wrapping the scarf around his neck, the fabric drinking in the frosty morning air. It was just an image, but enough to warm her heart.
By late afternoon, Xiaoqing said goodbye at the door with her usual liveliness, promising to come back the next day. The house then returned to its habitual silence.
In the kitchen, Lin Meilan was preparing tea. Steam rose from the kettle like a calm breath. When her daughter entered, still holding the bag, she watched her in silence for a few seconds. Then, she served a cup and placed it on the table.— It's cold outside — she said simply. — Have some before you go upstairs.
Yuyan sat down across from her. The warmth of the tea heated her fingers, but it was her mother's gaze that made her avert her eyes.— Is it a gift? — Lin asked, her voice gentle, without pressing, but with the tenderness of someone who perceives the unspoken.
Yuyan nodded slowly.— For… someone who has been important.
Her mother didn't press further. She only ran her hand over the porcelain of her cup, as if warming the silence between them as well.— Gifts say more than words, my daughter. Just… — she drew in a breath, searching for the right words. — Just be sure that what you offer is something you'll be able to carry through afterwards.
Yuyan lifted her eyes, touched by the softness of the advice.— Mom… what if I don't know what to expect?
Lin smiled faintly, with the serenity of someone who has already weathered life's winters.— Then begin with what you feel now. The rest… time will teach.
For a few moments, they remained in silence, sharing only the fragrance of the tea. It was enough for Yuyan to feel lighter.
Back in her room, she took the black scarf from the bag and laid it carefully across the bed. She stared at the fabric for a few seconds, until, almost inevitably, she opened the drawer and pulled out paper and pen.
She sat at her desk. The lamp cast a warm glow over the blank page.
And then she began to write.
Her hand moved slowly, as if each word had to be measured with precision. A stroke, a pause, another line. There was no hurry — only the need to set on paper what she dared not say aloud.
When she finished, she folded the sheet delicately, slipped it into an envelope, and placed it beside the black scarf.
She no longer needed to look at what she had written. The gesture spoke for itself.