Chapter 11: The Apology He Never Spoke
The sun dipped low behind the skyline, setting the city ablaze in a warm amber hue. Xuan Qi stood by the tall windows of her office, her fingers clutching a porcelain teacup that had long gone cold. She wasn't really drinking—it was a prop, something to do with her hands while her thoughts churned violently inside her.
Wei Jie hadn't messaged since the gala.
Not a single word.
He had stood across from her in that glittering ballroom, eyes locked like two magnets caught in a force too old to break. And yet, he said nothing. No apology. No explanation. Just that look, torn between guilt and something else—something raw and broken.
She had waited. Not for an answer, but perhaps for him to fight for her. To say something. Anything.
But he disappeared into the crowd that night just like he had ten years ago.
The ache was familiar now, like a song she hated but knew by heart.
Her phone buzzed.
It wasn't him.
Xuan Qi set the cup down, walked across the office, and flipped open a file, trying to lose herself in something that didn't carry his name.
But she couldn't.
She hadn't cried at the gala. She hadn't cried in a long time.
Maybe that's why she hated him most—for reawakening the girl who once believed love could survive anything.
A knock broke the silence.
She turned. Her assistant peeked in.
"Miss Xuan, someone's asking to see you. He says his name is—"
"Let him in," she said before the name could be spoken.
Wei Jie stepped inside.
Not in a suit. Not like the man she saw at the gala. This was the version from years ago—hoodie, tired eyes, and hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.
"I don't know why I came," he said softly. "I just… couldn't stay silent anymore."
"You were silent for ten years. A few more days wouldn't have killed you."
He flinched.
Good, she thought. Let it sting.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said. "I just… I wanted to tell you the truth."
Xuan Qi raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Which part? That you vanished? That you left without a word? That I waited months, thinking I'd done something wrong?"
"I was scared," he said.
"That's not good enough."
"I know," he admitted. "But I didn't leave because I stopped loving you."
She hated how fast her heart reacted to that.
"I left because I didn't think I was enough for the life you wanted. You were always brilliant, Xuan Qi. Even back then. I saw it in everything you did. I felt like I was just… dragging you down."
She laughed bitterly. "So you disappeared to do what? Become a better man? You left me with no closure, no answers, just silence—and now you're back?"
"I wasn't brave enough to face you," he said, quieter this time. "Every day I thought of writing. Calling. Coming back. But I convinced myself you'd moved on. You were building something so big. And I… I couldn't even hold myself together."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now, I'm here. Because I need you to know that leaving was never about you. It was my own weakness."
She looked at him. Really looked. The weight in his eyes wasn't performative. It wasn't rehearsed. It was the weight of years spent regretting the same moment.
She didn't forgive him.
But she didn't hate him either.
That night, the rain returned.
It was soft at first—just a drizzle tapping against her windows—but by midnight, it grew wild, slapping the glass like it was trying to remind her of every unspoken word between them.
Xuan Qi sat on the couch in her apartment, legs curled beneath her, her eyes staring at nothing in particular. The apology kept replaying in her mind—not just the words, but the way Wei Jie's voice cracked, the way he couldn't meet her eyes when he said, "I've regretted it every day."
She picked up her phone. No messages. No calls.
He didn't expect her to forgive him. And strangely, that made his apology feel more real.
A soft chime rang from her office laptop. A scheduled backup of her files. She got up to turn it off, and as she did, a folder popped up—one she hadn't touched in years.
"Archive: 2015."
She stared at it. Then opened it.
Old photos spilled onto the screen. Most were of campus life. Friends. Late-night projects. And then—him.
Wei Jie. Laughing, carefree. His arm slung around her shoulders like it belonged there.
Then came the videos. She hesitated. Clicked one.
It was her birthday. She remembered it now—her 22nd. She'd just landed a small internship and Wei Jie had surprised her with a cake in the dorm courtyard.
"Say something for future you," the girl filming had laughed.
And he did. Young Wei Jie, grinning straight at the camera, said:
"If I ever mess things up… I hope I have the guts to say I'm sorry. Because this girl? I'd never find another like her."
Xuan Qi paused the video.
It wasn't fair.
He was still in her bones, in her memories, in every part of her she'd tried to protect from him.
But he was also the boy who said that, long before he broke her heart.
The next day, she saw him again.
Not intentionally. She was at a café meeting with a potential investor. And he was seated two tables away.
She almost left.
But then he looked up. Their eyes met. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
The investor glanced at her, confused. She politely excused herself and followed Wei Jie outside.
He didn't speak at first. Just walked beside her as the afternoon sun lit his profile.
"I watched that video," she finally said.
He stopped. "The birthday one?"
She nodded.
"I meant every word"
They stood under a jacaranda tree in full bloom. Purple blossoms drifted down between them.
"I was angry for so long," she said. "You didn't just leave me. You erased us. I thought I wasn't enough."
His eyes widened, full of pain. "Don't say that. You were everything."
"Then why didn't you come back sooner?"
"I thought I was beyond fixing. That you'd moved on. You were building your empire. I didn't want to be the ghost who ruined it."
"I didn't need perfection, Wei Jie. I needed honesty."
He looked at her then, and something shifted—less pain, more clarity. "I'm here now. If all I can be is someone who tells you the truth, then let me do that."
She didn't reply. She was tired—of yelling, of crying, of guarding her heart so fiercely.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out something small—a folded, aged envelope
"I wrote this the day I left," he said. "But I never sent it."
She hesitated. Then took it.
Later that night, alone again, she unfolded it.
It wasn't long.
Xuan Qi,
I'm leaving not because I stopped loving you, but because I don't know how to carry this version of me beside someone so bright.
I want to be better. But I don't know how.
If I ever return, it will be because I finally learned to face you without shame.
Forgive me, or don't. But never doubt that you were the best part of my life.
— Wei Jie
Her tears came slower this time.
Not jagged. Just soft.
He had been lost. And maybe, so had she.
But something was shifting.
The next time they met—she knew there would be a next time—she wouldn't run.
She might not forgive him yet.
But she wouldn't turn away either.
Not anymore.