The first thing I do is reach for my phone.
I don’t stop to think about it or question the impulse, I just unlock the screen and scroll straight to Bael’s contact like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My thumb hovers for half a second, just long enough for the thought to flicker...*why him first?*...before I press call.
It rings, once, twice, three tis, and then his voicemail picks up, smooth and distant, his voice reduced to sothing impersonal and recorded.
I don’t leave a ssage. I hang up instead and stare at the screen for a mont, telling myself this is normal, that he’s probably in a eting, that he doesn’t pick up calls during work unless it’s urgent.
This feels urgent.
Not in the way he would define it, but still.
I open our ssage thread, type *Are you busy?*, then delete it imdiately because that’s not what I want to say.
I try again, *I need to tell you sothing*, and delete that too because it sounds too heavy, too deliberate, like I’m asking for more than I have the right to ask for.
I exhale quietly and start over, settling on sothing neutral.
*When will you be ho?*
I send it before I can overthink it further.
The ssage delivers instantly, and I sit there watching the screen like sothing might happen if I look at it long enough.
Nothing does.
No typing indicator, no reply, no acknowledgnt at all, just my own words sitting there unchanged.
He’s in a eting. That’s all.
I set the phone down, then pick it up again a few seconds later without aning to, checking the screen even though I already know there won’t be anything new.
There isn’t.
I tell myself to stop, to give it ti, to do sothing else in the anti, and then push back from the desk because sitting still suddenly feels impossible.
The energy in my chest hasn’t gone anywhere.
If anything, it’s sharper now that I’m not actively reading the email, not grounding myself in the words that made this real.
It feels like it’s looking for sowhere to go, like if I stay still too long it’s going to turn into sothing else entirely.
So I move.
The estate looks the sa as it always does, quiet and controlled, every detail exactly where it should be, but sothing about it feels different today, or maybe it’s just .
Everything feels lighter, like there’s a current running under my skin that wasn’t there before, sothing that wants to spill out if I’m not careful.
I walk without direction at first, then realize I’ve circled the sa stretch of hallway twice and force myself to turn sowhere else.
It’s ridiculous, pacing like this, checking my phone every few minutes like I’m expecting sothing imdiate when I know better than that. I’ve seen how his days work, how etings stack into each other until ti stops aning anything except the next task that needs to be handled.
Still, I check again.
Nothing.
This is ridiculous.
I have genuinely good news and no one to tell it to, which turns out to be its own specific kind of frustrating.
I could call Ling Yue. He’d want to know, and he’d respond properly, with actual enthusiasm rather than asured acknowledgnt.
But I find I don’t want to call Ling Yue first.
I don’t follow that thought any further.
I end up back in the study without rembering how I got there, sit down, then stand again almost imdiately because the restlessness won’t let stay in one place.
My fingers tap against the back of the chair in an uneven rhythm until I force them to stop, pressing my palm flat against the wood like that might ground .
You’re excited, I tell myself. That’s all this is.
Excited energy with nowhere to go yet, nothing more complicated than that.
I just need to wait until he gets ho. Until I can tell him properly, not through a rushed ssage or a half-conversation between etings, but in a way that actually feels real.
That thought makes pause.
*Actually feels real.*
I frown slightly, because I don’t know what that’s supposed to an, not exactly, and I don’t look at it too closely. Instead, I push it aside and keep moving.
***
By the ti dinner is ready, he still isn’t ho.
I don’t ask where he is. Mrs. Wen moves through the dining room with her usual quiet efficiency, setting everything in place like nothing is different, like this is just another evening.
"Will Mr. Wuchen be joining you?" she asks, her tone neutral.
"I don’t know," I reply, which is the simplest version of the truth.
She nods once and steps back, leaving alone at the table.
I sit down, glance at the empty chair across from , then pick up my phone again before I can stop myself. There’s still nothing... no missed calls, no ssages, no indication that he’s even seen what I sent.
I set the phone face-down on the table this ti, deliberately pushing it a little further away.
I can eat without checking it every few seconds. I’m not that—
I take a bite, chew, swallow, and reach for the phone again out of reflex, stopping myself halfway through the motion.
I close my eyes briefly, exhale, and pull my hand back.
This is stupid.
He’s working. That’s all.
He’s not obligated to respond imdiately, not to sothing like this, not when he has actual responsibilities to deal with.
I take another bite, but the food barely registers, the taste muted by the way my attention keeps drifting elsewhere.
By the ti I’m halfway through the al, the energy from earlier has shifted, not disappeared, just... changed.
There’s still sothing restless under my skin, but it’s no longer clean, no longer just excitent.
Sothing else has layered itself over it, sothing quieter and harder to na.
I don’t try to na it.
***
I finish dinner alone.
Mrs. Wen clears the table without comnt.
I pick up my phone again.
Still nothing.
My text sits there unchanged.
*When will you be ho?*
I consider sending another ssage, then don’t, because I don’t know what I’d say that wouldn’t sound unnecessary or worse, like I’m asking for sothing I can’t justify.
He’s busy.
That’s the explanation.
The only explanation.
I know that.
So why does it feel like there should be more to it?
Like this isn’t just about telling soone.
Like it’s about telling him.
I stop that thought before it goes any further.
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