Lu Sihan stared at the chat window, feeling as if his heart was about to leap out of his throat.
It wasn’t because he had said anything extraordinary, but because she hadn’t deleted him.
She hadn’t blocked him again.
She hadn’t closed the chat window—she was just watching.
That was enough.
He put away his phone, took a deep breath, and looked up again at the sixth-floor window.
The curtains were closed once more, but this time, he noticed the edge of the curtain was pinned back by something, leaving an extremely narrow gap.
Inside the gap was a small patch of light—whether it was sunlight or the glow of a phone screen, he couldn’t tell.
Suddenly, he remembered something.
Many years ago, Shen Luning had said something he didn’t understand at the time.
She said, “Lu Sihan, do you know? The hardest part of loving someone isn’t giving—it’s waiting.”
He asked her why.
She replied, “Because giving is something you can control, but waiting isn’t. Waiting means handing the initiative over to the other person. It’s like taking your heart out and placing it on the table, saying, ‘You decide whether to take it or not.’ That requires a lot of courage.”
Back then, he didn’t understand. He thought love meant fighting desperately, holding on tightly, and making sure the other person knew how much you cared.
He believed obsession was passion, stubbornness was sincerity, and refusing to let go was love.
It took him five years to understand what she meant by “waiting.”
It wasn’t about doing nothing.
It was about doing what needed to be done and then leaving the outcome to time.
Lu Sihan leaned against the car door, took the rabbit plushie from his pocket, and placed it on the roof of the car.
The rabbit’s ears were sewn crookedly, swaying slightly in the wind like a wobbly signpost pointing toward the sixth-floor window.
He just stood there.
Not kneeling, not making a scene, not crying, not shouting.
Just waiting.
The sun slowly rose higher, and the sunlight in the alley shifted from slanting to direct, heating the ground until it grew warm.
His white shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his back and revealing the outline of his shoulder blades.
The Winnie the Pooh bandage on his neck was starting to peel at the edges from the sweat. He pressed it down, sticking it more firmly in place.
Grandma Wang from the fourth floor returned from grocery shopping and paused as she passed him, glancing at him and then at the rabbit on the car roof.
“Young man,” Grandma Wang said, “waiting for your girlfriend?”
Lu Sihan was taken aback.
It had been years since anyone called him “young man.”
In business settings, people called him “President Lu.” In social situations, they addressed him as “Mr. Lu.” And in the mouths of those trying to curry favor, he was “Master Lu.”
But no one called him “young man.”
The term made him feel as if he hadn’t become completely unrecognizable yet.
“Yes,” he said, “waiting for my wife.”
Grandma Wang looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the Winnie the Pooh bandage on his neck before she smiled meaningfully.
“Young people,” she said, carrying her grocery basket toward the stairwell, her voice echoing from the entrance, “once you’ve made up your mind, pursue her properly. Don’t be like my old man—he didn’t cherish her when he was young, and now he can’t even catch up if he tries.”
Lu Sihan watched her figure disappear into the dim stairwell.
He wanted to say thank you, but his throat felt tight.
On the sixth floor, in that narrow gap of the window, the light flickered.
It wasn’t sunlight.
It was the glow of a phone screen.
Upstairs, Shen Luning sat on the floor by the window, leaning against the wall, the light from her phone screen reflecting on her face.
She stared at the emoji of that ugly rabbit—crooked ears, mismatched eyes, and a lopsided heart.
She recognized that rabbit.
It was the rabbit she had sewn.
He had drawn it, capturing every single detail.
The angle of the crooked ears, the proportion of the mismatched eyes, even the almost invisible “L&S” on the inner side of the left ear—he had drawn it all.
He remembered.
He remembered the details even she had almost forgotten.
Shen Luning flipped her phone over and pressed it against the floor, burying her face in her knees.
She didn’t cry, but her eyes felt hot.
“Mom.”
Xiao Niangao had walked over at some point and was now squatting in front of her, holding a box of tissues.
“Do you need a tissue?”
Shen Luning looked up at him.
When had this child gotten the tissues?
It was as if he had known she would need them, prepared in advance.
She looked at him, wanting to say something, but her lips moved without a word coming out.
“Here.” Xiao Niangao stuffed the tissues into her hand. “If you don’t use them, I’ll keep them for myself.”
Shen Luning looked down at the tissues in her hand—a blue-packaged Vinda brand, the kind you could buy three boxes for ten yuan at the supermarket, printed with Winnie the Pooh.
She suddenly smiled.
“Xiao Niangao.”
“Hmm?”
“Did you sneak a peek at my phone?”
Xiao Niangao pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes darting to the upper left corner before quickly snapping back. He shook his head vigorously.
“No.”
“Lu Xingye, your eyes always dart to the upper left corner when you lie.”
“I didn’t.”
“You just did.”
“I didn’t look.”
“You did.”
Xiao Niangao fell silent.
After three seconds of silence, he deflated, his shoulders slumping as he whispered, “Fine, I took a glance, but it popped up on its own. I didn’t mean to look.”
Shen Luning set the tissues aside and pulled him closer.
He obediently sat on her lap, resting his small head against her chest.
“What did you see?”
“I saw someone sending you a message.”
Xiao Niangao’s voice was muffled. “That person asked if you liked someone else.”
Shen Luning’s hand stilled.
“And then?”
“And then you cried.”
Xiao Niangao looked up at her. “Mom, is what that person said true? Does Dad like someone else?”
Shen Luning looked into Xiao Niangao’s eyes.
Those eyes, unlike her own features but identical to Lu Sihan’s, stared straight at her, earnest and serious.
She hesitated, unsure how to answer.
“Xiao Niangao, Mom doesn’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Mhm, Mom doesn’t know if what that person said is true. Mom has been away from Dad for a long time. What Dad has done in these five years, who he’s been with—Mom doesn’t know any of it.”
Xiao Niangao frowned, the gesture exactly like Lu Sihan’s.
“Then why don’t you ask him?”
“Because Mom is scared.”
“Scared of what?”
Shen Luning pressed her face against Xiao Niangao’s hair and closed her eyes.
The scent of strawberry shampoo mixed with the smell of her own tears—salty, bitter, and tinged with an indescribable sorrow.
“Scared of the answer,” she said. “Whether it’s true or false, Mom is scared.”
“Why are you scared even if it’s true?”
Xiao Niangao’s voice was soft, carrying the unique confusion of a child, “If Dad really likes someone else, then you can stop liking him, and you won’t have to be sad anymore.”
“But Mom still likes him.”