Han Zhe arrived two days later.
Unlike Gu Chengyi, he didn't announce himself.
No emails.
No messages.
No carefully constructed excuses disguised as concern.
I only realized he was here because the café owner downstairs hesitated when handing me my change.
"Your… friend," she said uncertainly. "He's been coming every afternoon. Sits by the window. Doesn't order much."
I already knew who it was.
Han Zhe had always waited like that.
As if patience alone could rewrite outcomes.
I didn't go down.
Not that day.
Not the next.
By the third afternoon, it had become a pattern—him in the café, me walking past the window without turning my head.
I felt his presence anyway.
It was different from Gu Chengyi's.
Less controlled.
More reckless.
Like a hand hovering too close to a flame, convinced it wouldn't burn this time.
He caught up with me on the fourth day.
Outside the tram stop.
Crowded. Public. No room for dramatics.
"Yanxi."
I stopped.
Not because he called my name.
But because he said it the way he always used to—careless, familiar, as if nothing had changed.
I turned slowly.
"You shouldn't be here either," I said.
He smiled reflexively.
Then stopped himself.
"I figured you'd say that."
"Yet here you are."
He shrugged, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "I don't do well with rules."
"That was always obvious."
A corner of his mouth twitched.
Then faded.
"I heard about Gu Chengyi," he said.
I nodded once. "I'm sure you did."
"He didn't tell us how it went."
"Then he learned something new."
Han Zhe exhaled, glancing away briefly before meeting my eyes again.
"You really left," he said. "No drama. No warning. Just—gone."
"Yes."
"You didn't even give us a chance to explain."
I studied him.
Then asked quietly, "Explain what?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again. "That we didn't mean—"
"Stop," I said.
The word wasn't loud.
But it cut cleanly.
"You always do this," I continued evenly. "You rush in after the damage, hoping charm will soften the impact."
"That's not fair."
"No," I agreed. "It's accurate."
Something shifted in his expression.
Not anger.
Embarrassment.
"Do you know how it felt?" he asked, voice dropping. "Waking up and realizing you were actually gone?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I said, "Yes."
That surprised him.
"I woke up that morning already gone," I continued. "You just noticed late."
The crowd thinned. The tram approached in the distance.
Han Zhe stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to test.
"I'm not here to force anything," he said quickly. "I just—needed to see you. To know you're okay."
I looked at him steadily.
"You don't get reassurance," I said. "Not after choosing silence when it mattered."
His shoulders tensed. "I didn't choose her."
"No," I replied. "You chose convenience."
The tram doors opened.
"I won't apologize the way Gu Chengyi did," he said suddenly. "I don't think apologies fix everything."
I met his gaze.
"For once," I said, "you're right."
His eyes flickered—hope, maybe.
Then I added, "But accountability does."
The hope died quietly.
"What does that look like to you?" he asked.
I stepped onto the tram.
Then paused.
Turned back just enough for him to hear me.
"It looks like you leaving," I said. "Without asking me to make it easier for you."
The doors closed.
As the tram pulled away, I saw him through the glass.
Still standing there.
Hands in his pockets.
Smile gone.
For the first time since I'd known him, Han Zhe didn't chase.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he finally understood something terrifying:
If he followed this time,
he wouldn't be forgiven—
he would be dismissed.
And dismissal,
unlike rejection,
leaves no room to argue.