A few days later, Noelle was still hesitating to ask Han if they could go try some of the food stalls together. Every time she thought about approaching him, her courage faltered. She would imagine him smiling at her, laughing at her suggestions, maybe even teasing her like he had the first day but the words never left her mouth.
Then, by chance, she overheard one of the kids from the neighbourhood talking about plans for the evening.
"…so Han's coming too! He said he'd join us to check out all the stalls," the kid said casually, not noticing Noelle lingering nearby.
Noelle froze. The realisation hit her all at once. The invite she had been hoping for, the one she had imagined countless times, had never been coming. Han hadn't been waiting for her to ask: he had already made other plans.
Her chest tightened and a small, surprised sound escaped her. She forced herself to step back, pretending to be interested in the decorations on her porch while her mind raced. A mix of disappointment and frustration bubbled inside her. She had thought their little exchanges meant something special, that maybe he wanted to spend time with her as much as she wanted to spend it with him.
Instead, she felt invisible. She had been waiting for an invitation that was never going to come. Her fingers clenched at the edges of the railing and she let out a quiet sigh, trying to shake off the sting of it.
For the rest of the day, Noelle moved through her routine with a sense of detachment. Each time she caught sight of Han laughing with the other kids, her stomach twisted in a way that was both uncomfortable and infuriating. She had been excited to show him her favourite spots, to share the little joys of her neighbourhood but now, the thought of doing anything for him felt pointless.
By evening, a firm decision settled in her chest. If he wasn't going to notice her, she would stop trying. She would no longer wait on the sidelines, hoping he might come to her. It hurt more than she cared to admit but Noelle decided it was better to retreat than to keep opening herself up to disappointment.
And so, the next morning, she stayed inside longer, watered her plants meticulously and avoided the usual spots where she might run into him. She still noticed him from a distance, still felt the pang of frustration and longing whenever he smiled at someone else but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it affected her.
Later that afternoon, Noelle tried to act like everything was normal. She peeked to see if the coast is clear before she walked out of her house to the bus stop. She wasn't ready to confront him and hasn't prepared herself to speak to him as if nothing's changed. But every time she caught sight of Han chatting or laughing with someone else down the street, her chest tightened a little.
She told herself she was overthinking it. After all, he was new to the neighbourhood. He didn't know her yet. Maybe he just wanted to make friends first. Still, a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered that it would have been nice if he had asked her…just her.
By evening, Noelle returned home, brushing invisible dust off her hands. The lights she had strung up glowed warmly, mocking her a little. She sighed and told herself she couldn't be upset. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow he would come to her porch, ask her to show him more of the city or at least share a pancake with her.
But as the night settled over the neighbourhood, Noelle realised something else: sometimes wishes didn't happen in the way you imagined. Sometimes they teased you, dancing just out of reach, leaving you to wonder if the magic was real or just a story you wanted to believe in.
And still, even with the disappointment, Noelle couldn't help hoping that Han might notice her next.
The days leading up to Christmas were a blur of twinkling lights, bustling streets, and quiet moments that Noelle secretly cherished with Han. They still bumped into each other now and then but there were also long stretches when she kept herself apart.
It was easier that way. Or so she told herself.
More often than not, she saw Han from a distance, standing in the courtyard laughing with the neighbours, his tall frame unmistakable even in the dim evening glow. The sound of his voice floated to her through the open window, warm and effortless, and each time it scraped painfully against her heart.
She refused to join them.
When he walked past her gate in the mornings, she made sure she was busy watering the plants, fussing with the tinsel on the front porch, or rearranging decorations that didn't really need rearranging. When he called out or raised his hand in greeting, she'd give a quick wave without meeting his eyes for long, then retreat hastily indoors.
And yet, she wasn't immune. Every time she heard his voice outside, her heart gave a little jump. Every time she caught him stealing a glance her way when he thought she wasn't looking, her chest tightened with a confusing mix of hope and hurt. She tried to convince herself that distance was safer. If Han didn't see her the way she wished he would, then guarding her heart was the only way to survive.
But the effort cost her more than she wanted to admit.
One evening, she sat by her window, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the soft glow of the holiday lights dance against the quiet street. Somewhere nearby, neighbours were laughing together, and she caught Han's voice among them; easy, relaxed and so achingly familiar. The ache in her chest throbbed like a wound that refused to heal.
For a moment she allowed herself to imagine stepping outside, joining the circle, catching his eye and smiling as if none of the distance mattered. But the thought made her heart twist even more painfully. So instead, she remained in the shadows of her room, watching, listening, wishing.