The first rose appeared Monday morning on Shen Miao's desk.
A single, deep crimson bloom in a crystal bud vase — no note, no signature. Just the quiet scent of memory.
She stared at it for a long time.
It was identical to the roses that had lined the ballroom the night of the LUMIGO Fashion Gala — the same red as her dress, the same hue that made He Ran go quiet mid-sentence.
At first, she brushed it off as decoration. But the next day, another appeared — this time with a folded note.
> "You looked just like I remembered."
Her breath caught.
By Wednesday, a third rose joined the others, its note soft and raw:
> "I missed you more than I can say."
She didn't know what frightened her more — the fact that someone knew how to reach her heart, or the fact that her heart already whispered a name:
He Ran.
---
Meanwhile...
He Ran sat alone in his office, turning pages of an old notebook.
Most would think CEOs didn't cling to scraps of paper or blurry photographs. But tucked inside that notebook was a piece of his past that never let go.
A faded photo — him and Shen Miao, high school fashion show, spotlight too harsh, laughter just seconds before the shutter clicked.
Her hand curled around his sleeve.
His smile—rare, soft—directed only at her.
He Ran's POV
I remember every second of that day.
How she nervously fixed her hem backstage.
How she froze when the lights hit her.
How I whispered, "You've got this," and she smiled like it was the first time she believed it.
I kept the photo. I didn't know why then.
I do now.
I never stopped waiting for her.
---
Back in the present...
Shen Miao's heart fluttered with each rose. But by Friday, her hope came crashing down — all because of Irene.
She was walking toward the executive wing when she saw them.
Irene, standing close to He Ran in the hallway outside his office — too close. Her hand brushed his arm. Her laughter floated up like perfume. And He Ran... he didn't step back.
Shen Miao slowed, unsure whether to interrupt or walk away.
"I just think we make a good team," Irene said, eyes locked on him. "Professionally... and maybe more?"
He Ran didn't respond immediately. His expression unreadable. Neutral.
Shen Miao waited for him to shut it down.
He didn't.
Instead, he turned slightly and said, "We'll talk about this later, Irene."
Later?
Not "no." Not "this is inappropriate."
Just "later."
Shen Miao didn't wait for more.
She turned and walked away — her heart sinking deeper than she cared to admit.
---
That night, a fourth rose arrived.
The note this time:
> "Some things never fade."
She stared at it.
And for the first time, she didn't smile.
---
Shen Miao's POV
Maybe I was stupid to believe it was him.
Maybe the look he gave me at the gala was nothing more than a moment caught in lights and music.
Maybe Irene is the one who fits into his world — bold, perfect, unafraid.
She picked up the rose and held it gently — and then let it fall into the bin.
—
The morning after the fourth rose felt different.
The sky over the city was dull and grey, like even the sun didn't want to show up. Rain had left a fine mist clinging to the office windows, and everything inside LUMIGO's headquarters felt strangely still.
Shen Miao walked into the building in silence, her heels clicking against the marble floor like they were echoing through a cathedral — not an office.
No makeup. No bright lipstick.
Her hair was tied back in a simple knot, her red-gold pin missing.
Only the faintest blush remained on her cheeks from a restless night.
She passed by the front desk, ignoring the friendly greetings she usually returned.
No one saw the crushed fourth rose hidden in her tote bag.
---
Inside the Office
Her desk was exactly how she left it — too neat, too impersonal. The first three roses still sat in their vases on the corner. But today, she didn't even look at them.
She turned them all around, so the petals faced the wall.
"Cold this morning, huh?" her teammate joked while passing by.
She smiled.
But it didn't reach her eyes.
---
Meeting Room, 10:00 AM
The team assembled for their mid-week brand strategy meeting. Shen Miao was the last to enter — unusual for her. She sat two chairs away from He Ran, even though there was an empty one beside him.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
She didn't look at him once. Not when he complimented the team's pitch. Not when his voice softened slightly while saying her name. Not even when his hand rested for a second on the table, close enough to hers — but not quite.
Her responses were clipped, her tone polite. Measured.
Like a colleague.
Nothing more.
---
He Ran's POV
She's not just hurt. She's closing the door.
He had watched her enter the room — in grey, in silence, her gaze hollow. She didn't even wear that moon-shaped pendant she always fiddled with during presentations.
He wanted to ask.
To pull her aside.
To explain.
But something about her stillness made him pause.
It wasn't just anger.
It was disappointment — the kind that says: I believed in you, and you let me down.
And He Ran, for the first time in years, didn't know how to fix something with words.
---
Later That Night…
He unlocked the notebook again.
The photo still smiled at him, unaware of time.
Her handwritten note still lived between the pages, never opened — her "secret."
He reached for it with trembling fingers.
But he didn't unfold it.
Not yet.
He didn't want to open something she never gave him permission to read — again.
He didn't want to cross that line.
Because if he lost her again…
—High School Flashback—Two Weeks Before the Fashion Show
Shen Miao had always visited the school library before morning assembly. She liked the silence, the smell of paper, the calm.
That's where she found the book.
"A Sky Too Quiet" — a soft, poetic coming-of-age novel no one else had checked out in years. It was about two childhood friends who never confessed their love but shared glances, missed moments, and silence that spoke louder than words.
She checked it out three times in a row. Not because she didn't finish — but because she couldn't let it go.
One day, while sitting by the window in the reading corner, He Ran appeared.
"You keep rereading that," he said, leaning against the shelf.
She nodded. "It's like… the characters never say what they mean. But you can still feel everything."
He tilted his head. "Sounds frustrating."
"It's honest."
He walked over, sat across from her, and took the book gently from her hands.
"I'll read it next," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You don't read stories."
"I don't," he said, eyes on hers. "But maybe I should."
That evening, she tucked a small folded photo — their first fashion show together — inside the last page. Behind it, a single post-it note:
> "If he reads this and understands it, maybe we'll never have to say anything out loud."
She returned the book to the library the next morning.
But He Ran never checked it out.
He left too soon.
. . . .
That night, He Ran opened a drawer he hadn't touched in years.
Beneath old medals, a broken compass, and one of Shen Miao's old hair ties — something he once picked up during rehearsals and never returned — sat the book.
The same book.
His name was still on the borrower slip — dated five days after she returned it.
Inside the back cover was a photo.
Two high schoolers, eyes bright beneath stage lights.
Her fingers on his sleeve.
And beneath it, faded but intact:
> "If he reads this and understands it, maybe we'll never have to say anything out loud."
He closed the book slowly, a thousand memories rushing in.
And just one clear truth:
She had always spoken.
He just hadn't listened in time.