Days turned into routines without him.
I kept the shop open. I wrapped orders. I answered calls. I did deliveries. Nothing changed on the surface. Inside, things shifted.
Ethan texted less. When he did, the messages were short. Made it. Back next week. Busy.
I stopped expecting more. I read the lines and moved on.
A new delivery guy started coming by twice a week. He wore the same blue jacket every time and carried a crate with a careful hand. He introduced himself on the third visit.
"Gao Jun," he said. "From East River Logistics."
"Mei Lin," I said.
He set the crate down and checked the invoice. He asked where to put things. He knew the routine quickly. He didn't overstep. He smiled and left without waiting for thanks.
After that, he kept showing up. Not every day. Not always on schedule. But often enough that we began to talk while I signed receipts or he stacked boxes.
"You live around here?" he asked once.
"Ten minutes," I said.
"Me too," he said. "I can help if you need."
"I'm fine," I said.
He shrugged. "If you change your mind, tell me."
He was practical. He asked about orders, not about me. He made small talk and moved on. That was fine. I didn't need more.
People started leaving notes again. A regular asked me to keep a bouquet for pickup. A café ordered weekly arrangements. I handled it all. Jun's help made the deliveries easier. He knew routes and shortcuts. He took crates up stairs without complaining. He noticed when a box was mislabelled and fixed it.
One afternoon, a package arrived with no return address. Inside was a plain ceramic pot. A note taped to the bottom: For the cactus. From E.
I put the pot on the counter and didn't open it. I folded the paper and slid it into the drawer. When Jun came in to pick up a delivery he saw the pot.
"New stock?" he asked.
"No." I gave a short answer.
He glanced at the drawer. "Is that from him?" He didn't name Ethan. He didn't need to.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"You should see all the packages we handle," he said. "You get the odd ones." He half-smiled. "If it bothers you, I can take it to lost and found."
"It's not bothering me." I kept my voice flat.
He left with the crate. I watched him go, then closed the drawer.
That night I texted Ethan a picture of the pot. You sent this?
He replied: Yeah. Keep it on the left shelf. It fits the cactus.
Thanks, I typed and sent. I stared at the screen until the phone dimmed.
The next week, Jun asked if I wanted help with a special order. A client wanted a dozen mixed bouquets for a small ceremony at a community center. The pickup time was tight. The street would be busy. I could do it alone, but Jun offered.
"Two hands are faster," he said. "I can wait."
We finished the arrangements in less than an hour. He loaded them into his van and checked the straps. He didn't try to make small talk about why I did this work. He asked where I learned flower arranging. I said I grew up around it. He nodded like that explained everything.
At the community center the crowd was polite. We set the bouquets on a long table. A woman in a plain coat came up to me and touched a flower.
"They look good," she said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
Jun waited by the car. He drove back like he'd done it a hundred times. On the way, he said, "You okay?"
"Yeah." I kept my eyes on the road.
"You don't look it."
"I'm fine," I said. I didn't tell him about the silence, the short texts, the small packages. I didn't want to turn it into a story for a stranger.
He dropped me at the shop and waited until I locked the door. "Let me know if you need help tomorrow," he said.
"I will," I said.
When he left, I felt odd. I didn't know if it was relief or guilt.
Ethan came back after a week away. He walked in without knocking. He moved through the shop like he owned the floor. He looked at the shelves briefly, then at me.
"You changed the display," he said.
"Needed space," I said.
He picked up the new ceramic pot and set it under the cactus. "Fits," he said. No smile. No further comment.
Later that day Jun came with a delivery and saw Ethan talking to me by the counter. He paused, then stepped back to let them finish. Ethan left soon after. Jun and I loaded the crates together. He didn't mention Ethan. I didn't either.
Over the next few days Ethan floated between long absences and short visits. When he was here, he helped tie ribbons, carried trays into the back, and sat at the counter without asking to be invited. He did things without speaking about them. It felt natural until it didn't.
One afternoon a customer asked about wedding bouquets. She wanted simple colors. She asked if I could meet her at the venue to set up. The date conflicted with one of Ethan's planned trips. I checked my calendar, then the deliveries schedule. I needed help to handle both.
I thought of Jun. I called the logistics office and asked for him by name.
"He's available," the manager said after a pause. "He said he could help."
Jun arrived on the morning of the event with a bag of supplies and a calm face. We worked through the list. He asked about the bride's preferred flowers. He adjusted while I explained the layout. He asked where I wanted the arrangements placed and carried the heavier items.
When we finished, I felt tired in the way you feel after running and not just walking. Jun packed the van. He said, "I'll stay until you tell me to go."
"Thanks," I said.
He packed anyway. He didn't wait for thanks.
Ethan arrived after we returned. He saw the van and the empty stems and asked, "How did it go?"
"Good," I said.
He nodded. "Do you need me to call anyone?" He reached for the phone.
"No." My voice was flat. "I can handle it."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He lowered his hand. "Okay."
He left that night without saying anything to Jun. Jun closed the door behind him and wiped his hands. He said, "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said.
"You don't seem okay," he said again. He sounded like someone checking an order twice.
"I said I'm okay," I replied.
He didn't push. He left.
The silence after he left was a different kind. It wasn't simply quiet. It was measured. It had weight.
I realized I was keeping two kinds of distance. One from Ethan, because he left often and spoke little. One from Jun, because accepting help felt like opening a door I wasn't ready to open.
That night Ethan sent a message: Dinner tomorrow?
I read it twice. I thought about Jun lifting the heavy crates that day. I thought about the pot he'd sent. I thought about the way Ethan moved through the shop and the way he left.
I typed: Okay.
I didn't add anything else.
The next evening he came early. He carried a small bag. He set it on the counter without saying why. I didn't ask. I was tired of questions that needed careful answers.
We ate in silence for a while. He watched my hands as I washed plates. He asked, "You okay?"
"Yes."
"You don't have to say yes."
"I don't want to talk about it."
He set the bag down and opened it. Inside were two sandwiches and a small thermos of soup. He handed one to me.
"Thanks," I said.
"No problem."
We ate. The conversation stayed in small pockets. We spoke about orders, about a new ribbon supplier, about a mislabelled delivery that morning. The talk stayed on tasks.
Before he left he said, "I'll be gone next week."
"Again?" I asked.
"Short trip," he said. "A few days."
"Okay."
He hesitated. "If you need anything, text."
"I will," I said.
He left.
I stood at the counter and listened to the shop settle. The cactus pot sat to the left of the register. The new deliveries stacked in the back. The phone sat dark in my palm.
I didn't text Jun. I didn't text Ethan. I locked the door and walked home.
I slept badly. When I woke up, I made a list. There were orders to fill, deliveries to schedule, invoices to send. The list was a map of things to do. I followed it.
At noon Jun stopped by with a takeout box. He set it on the counter and said, "You looked like you were running on empty this morning."
"Thanks," I said.
"No problem." He smiled and left.
I watched him go. Then I picked up the phone and typed three words to Ethan. Be safe. Call me.
It stayed unsent. I put the phone away.
The shop hummed on. People came. People left. I moved through the tasks and found I could breathe between them. The shift had already happened. The door to someone new had opened a crack. The other door stayed half-closed.
I didn't know which one I would walk through. I only knew I was moving.