(Hedi's POV)
The meeting ends.
Chairs slide back.
Papers gather.
Voices lower.
"Good work, sir."
"Send me the final numbers."
"Yes, sir."
The door closes.
And just like that—
Silence.
—
The office feels larger when it's empty.
Colder.
More… honest.
I loosen my tie slightly, leaning back in my chair, eyes drifting toward the glass wall.
The city stretches endlessly below.
Lights flickering.
Cars moving.
People living.
Everything distant.
Controlled.
Exactly how I like it.
—
But my mind isn't here.
It hasn't been since morning.
Since—
"You worry too much."
My jaw tightens slightly.
A small thing.
A casual line.
Said with that soft smile.
Like it didn't mean anything.
Like she didn't understand.
—
I exhale slowly.
"You don't worry enough."
The words leave my mouth quietly.
To no one.
And somehow—
That's enough.
Because the moment I say it—
The memory hits.
—
(Past — Hedi's POV)
The house is too quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
Just—
Empty.
People were here a few hours ago.
Too many people.
Too many voices.
Too many words that didn't mean anything.
Now—
There's nothing.
—
I stand outside her door.
For a second.
Two.
Three.
My hand lifts—
Then stops.
I don't knock.
I just open it.
—
She's sitting on the floor.
Back against the bed.
Still.
Too still.
Her eyes are fixed on nothing.
Not crying.
Not moving.
Just… there.
—
"Anxin."
No response.
—
I step inside.
Close the door behind me.
Walk toward her slowly.
Carefully.
Like she might disappear if I move too fast.
—
"Everyone left," I say.
Nothing.
—
I sit down beside her.
Close.
But not too close.
I don't touch her.
Not yet.
—
"You didn't eat."
That's what I notice first.
Of course it is.
—
"I'm not hungry," she whispers.
Her voice is quiet.
Not weak.
Just… distant.
—
"You should eat."
"I don't want to."
"You need to."
"I said I don't want to."
Her voice cracks.
Just slightly.
But I hear it.
—
I stop.
Because this isn't about food.
Not today.
—
Silence settles between us.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
—
"They're not coming back, are they?"
The question comes out suddenly.
Like she didn't plan to say it.
Like it slipped through everything she was holding in.
—
I don't answer immediately.
Because there's no version of this where the answer is easy.
—
"…No."
Honest.
Because lying won't help her.
—
And that's when it happens.
—
Her breathing changes.
Sharp.
Uneven.
Her hands tighten against the fabric of her dress.
And then—
She breaks.
—
Not slowly.
Not quietly.
All at once.
—
She grabs my shirt.
Fist clenching tight.
Like she's holding on to the only thing left.
"Don't leave me."
The words hit harder than anything else.
"I don't— I don't have anyone—"
Her voice collapses.
And for the first time—
I don't think.
I don't calculate.
I don't hold back.
—
I pull her closer.
One hand at the back of her head.
The other steady against her shoulder.
Holding her.
Firm.
Certain.
—
"I'm here."
My voice is low.
Steady.
Even if everything else isn't.
"I'm not going anywhere."
—
She shakes her head against me.
Tears soaking into my shirt.
"You'll leave too."
"I won't."
"They left— everyone leaves—"
"I won't."
Stronger this time.
Clearer.
Because she needs to hear it.
Because I need to mean it.
—
She grips tighter.
Like she's testing it.
Like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
"I don't want to be alone."
"You're not."
Her breathing is uneven.
Broken.
But slowly—
It starts to settle.
—
"I don't know what to do," she whispers.
I look down at her.
At the girl who never asked for help.
Who never showed weakness.
Until now.
—
"You don't have to do anything," I say quietly.
"I'll handle it."
—
A small pause.
Then—
"…Promise?"
That word.
Simple.
But heavy.
—
I don't hesitate.
"Promise."
—
She doesn't let go.
Not immediately.
Not for a long time.
And I don't move.
Because if I do—
She might think I'm leaving.
—
So I stay.
—
(Present — Hedi's POV)
The city lights blur slightly as I blink.
The memory fades.
But not completely.
It never does.
—
My hand rests on the desk.
Still.
Controlled.
But there's tension there.
Barely visible.
—
"She doesn't worry enough."
I say it again.
Quieter this time.
—
Because she doesn't remember that day the same way I do.
She remembers the loss.
The pain.
Maybe even me being there.
—
But I remember something else.
—
The way she held on.
Like I was the only thing left.
—
And I made a promise.
One I never broke.
—
My gaze shifts back to the city.
Cold.
Distant.
Predictable.
—
"…I don't break promises."
And that's the problem.
Because if anything—
Or anyone—
Tries to take her away from me now—
—
This time…
I won't just stay.
I'll make sure nothing ever gets close enough to make her say those words again.