Yàn Shū could not stop thinking about her.

It was becoming a problem. A genuine, measurable, statistically significant problem. He had missed two deadlines. He had forgotten to eat lunch three days in a row. He had walked into a doorframe this morning because he was too busy replaying their conversation in the library to watch where he was going.

Stars. And forests. And a woman with amethyst eyes.

Why had he said that? He didn’t even know her. He had spoken to her for approximately four minutes. He had learned her name and the fact that she had dreams she couldn’t explain. That was it. That was the sum total of his knowledge about Bai Yue.

And yet.

He went back to the library the next day.

She wasn’t there.

He went back the day after that.

Still nothing.

On the third day, he sat in the same corner of the reference section with a stack of books he wasn’t reading and waited. The afternoon light shifted across the floor. The hours passed. The librarian gave him a curious look.

She didn’t come.

"You look terrible."

Yàn Shū looked up from his desk. His research advisor, Dr. Zhao Lin, was standing in his doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. She was a small woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, and she had been his advisor for three years. She had never once pulled her punches.

"I’m fine," he said.

"You’re lying."

"I’m fine," he repeated. "I just... didn’t sleep well."

"You haven’t slept well for three days. You haven’t submitted your Chapter revisions. You forgot our meeting yesterday." She walked into his office and sat on the corner of his desk, looking down at him with an expression that was equal parts concern and exasperation. "What’s going on, Yàn Shū?"

He opened his mouth.

I met a woman in the library. She asked me about dreams. Now I can’t stop thinking about her. I dreamed of a red panda writing poetry. I dreamed of a woman with amethyst eyes. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

He couldn’t say any of that. It sounded insane.

"Nothing," he said. "Just... stress. The dissertation. You know."

Zhao Lin’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. He could tell. But she didn’t push.

"Take the weekend off," she said. "Rest. Eat something that isn’t instant ramen. And for the love of God, talk to someone if you need to." She stood up, straightened her cardigan, and walked to the door. "You’re no good to anyone burnt out, Yàn Shū. Least of all yourself."

She left.

Yàn Shū put his head in his hands.

~

His apartment was small. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that was more of a suggestion than a room. He shared it with his son, Hóng Yè, who was seventeen going on forty and had the emotional availability of a particularly grumpy rock.

The boy was at the kitchen table when Yàn Shū got home, hunched over a textbook, his hair falling into his eyes. He didn’t look up.

"Hi," Yàn Shū said.

"Hey."

"How was school?"

"Fine."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

The conversation died. It always died. Hóng Yè had been like this for years, ever since his mother left. Closed off. Guarded. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yàn Shū didn’t blame him. He was waiting for it too.

He walked past his son and into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. Leftover takeout. A bag of wilted lettuce. Half a carton of milk. He closed the door and leaned against the counter.

"You’re being weird," Hóng Yè said from the table.

Yàn Shū turned. "What?"

"You’re being weird. You’ve been weird for days. You keep staring at your phone like you’re expecting it to do something."

"I’m not—"

"You are." Hóng Yè finally looked up. His amber eyes were assessing. "Is it about Mom?"

Yàn Shū’s chest tightened. "No."

"Then what?"

He hesitated. He could lie. He could say it was work, the dissertation, the usual stress. Hóng Yè would accept that. He might even believe it.

But the look in his sons eyes made the lie stick in his throat.

"I met someone," Yàn Shū said.

Hóng Yè’s eyebrows shot up. "Someone?"

"At the library. A woman. We... talked."

"You talked to a woman at the library." Hóng Yè set down his pen. "You, my father, who once tripped over his own feet trying to ask a barista for coffee, talked to a woman. Voluntarily."

"I’m not that bad."

"You literally broke a display case last time you tried to flirt."

"I didn’t flirt. I just... existed in her vicinity. The display case was already cracked."

Hóng Yè stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, Yàn Shū hadn’t seen his son really smile in years, but it was close.

"What was her name?" Hóng Yè asked.

"Bai Yue."

"Bai Yue," Hóng Yè repeated. "What’s she like?"

Yàn Shū thought about her.

"She’s... familiar," he said. "I know that sounds strange. I only spoke to her for a few minutes. But I felt like I’d known her forever."

Hóng Yè was quiet for a moment. Then: "Have you seen her again?"

"No. I went back to the library. She wasn’t there."

"Did you get her number?"

"I didn’t ask."

Hóng Yè sighed. He had accepted his father was hopeless. "You’re an idiot."

"I’m aware."

"You should go back. To the library. Keep going until you find her."

"And then what?"

Hóng Yè shrugged. "I don’t know. Talk to her again. Ask for her number. Don’t break any display cases." He picked up his pen and turned back to his textbook. "You’re going to be late for prom pickup, by the way."

Yàn Shū blinked. "What?"

"Prom pickup. You’re driving me and my friends. We talked about this."

"I don’t remember talking about—"

"You never remember." Hóng Yè’s voice was flat, but they’re was hurt in it. "It’s fine. I’ll ask Uncle Mò to do it."

Yàn Shū’s chest ached. "I’ll be there."

"You don’t have to—"

"I’ll be there," he repeated. "I promise."