January in Liangcheng always arrived with a kind of cold that was sharp but not biting, a damp chill that clung to skin and fabric alike. The lanterns from the New Year still swayed above the streets, faded red against the pale sky. It had been two weeks since Lin Qing Yun had lost Si Yao. Two weeks since the warmth of her little sister's voice had disappeared from her days.
And yet life had not stopped.
Every morning, Qing Yun walked into Luminar with her hair neatly tied, smile in place, her notebooks organized. She typed reports, translated documents, explained things patiently to colleagues. After work, she slipped into her bookstore café shift, shelving novels, making coffee, chatting with customers as if nothing had changed. Even on weekends, she continued tutoring students in English, her tone warm, her patience endless.
To the world, she was still Sunny.
And beside her, Gu Ze Yan had become impossibly attentive.
---
At the Luminar office, it became routine: a knock at her cubicle, and there he was, tall frame leaning against the edge with that expression halfway between indulgence and command.
"Break," he would say, sliding a tray onto her desk. Jasmine tea steaming gently, paired with her favorite sesame crisps.
Her coworkers would glance, envious. They whispered that their founder was frighteningly strict with everyone else, yet turned into a doting boyfriend around Lin Qing Yun.
Sometimes, fresh flowers appeared at her workstation. Roses, tulips, lilies—the scent followed her all day. Once, she found a sleek shopping bag tucked under her chair, with a delicate silk scarf inside. Another day, it was a small velvet box containing an elegant bracelet.
Her phone never stopped buzzing:
Did you eat? Don't skip water.
Rest your eyes ten minutes.
I miss you.
At night, no matter how tired he was, he always pulled her close before sleep and whispered against her hair:
"Good night, my Sunny."
Qing Yun understood why he did it. He wanted to wrap her in happiness, to keep her from falling apart. So she accepted, played along, offered him gentle smiles and soft answers.
---
Their days together had settled into an almost married rhythm.
In the mornings, she peeled fruit and lined them neatly in a bowl, while he buttered her toast with serious concentration. When she tried to do both, he would frown.
"Division of labor," he'd insist. "Let me have some role."
At the office, he occasionally summoned her into his office not for work but to share some imported dessert a client had gifted him. They sat on the sofa in his office, him feeding her with a fork while pretending to read documents.
At night, when he returned from meetings, she loosened his tie and hung it neatly, fingers brushing the fabric smooth. Sometimes, before work in the mornings, she stood on tiptoe to knot his tie, the motion so natural it made his chest ache.
They took strolls in the apartment garden, her hand tucked into his coat pocket to keep warm. Once, she bent down to admire a stray winter bloom between the hedges, and he thought: If only the world could always be this quiet, this simple.
Ze Yan's heart carried a secret vow: to guard this peace for her, always.
---
But the nights told a different story.
When he finally fell asleep—arm heavy across her waist, breath steady against her hair—Qing Yun would sometimes slip out of bed. The apartment was hushed, city lights muted beyond the curtains.
She walked to the vanity mirror, sat before it, and stared at herself.
Her face was calm. Too calm.
She lifted the corners of her lips. Once. Twice. Again. A practiced curve, neat and bright.
The smile looked convincing enough—perhaps even radiant. Yet under the dim light, she could see the hollowness in her eyes.
She whispered softly to her reflection, as though speaking to her sister far away:
"It's okay… you must still be Sunny."
Her hand touched the cool surface of the mirror, fingertips brushing her own reflection. Behind the smile, she saw the weariness, the quiet grief she kept sealed tight.
She practiced until the smile looked effortless, until it seemed like it could fool even herself.
---
Once, Ze Yan stirred. Half-asleep, he reached out, realized the bed was empty. His eyes opened just enough to catch her silhouette at the vanity, shoulders straight, lips curved faintly.
He didn't call her name. He was afraid that if he broke the stillness, something fragile inside her would shatter.
Instead, he murmured, barely awake:
"My Sunny…"
Then he sank back into sleep.
Qing Yun turned, glanced at him. In that moment, her smile softened—not the bright Sunny smile, but something smaller, weary, and real. She lingered on him for a long breath before slipping quietly back under the blanket.
---
The next day, she was once again the gentle light everyone admired. At Luminar, she laughed when Chen Rui made jokes, at the bookstore she patiently helped a child choose novels, in tutoring she corrected pronunciation with kindness.
And Gu Ze Yan never stopped weaving happiness around her: bouquets, warm tea, expensive scarves, constant words of love.
Only the mirror in the dark knew the truth—that every day, before dawn or after midnight, she rehearsed her smile like a duty.
For the world, her smile was sunshine.
For herself, it was armor.