The morning light spilled gently through the window, painting the room in a soft glow. Yichen stirred, realizing he had fallen asleep on the cold floor. Slowly, he sat up, his body aching from the restless night.
He glanced around, searching—hoping—for Zhaoyan. But the familiar "Good morning" voice he longed to hear was missing.
Dragging himself to his feet, he walked to the window. Outside, his mother and her friend strolled leisurely through the garden, smiling and chatting as if nothing had happened. The sight only deepened the hollow ache inside him.
Yichen turned away and sank onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His eyes blurred with tears as memories of last night came rushing back—the shouting, the hurt, the moment Zhaoyan walked away.
A shaky breath escaped him. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and whispered, almost as if trying to convince himself,
"I'm not going to cry for him anymore. I can live without him."
