Tian Jiqing · Chat

As the palace lanterns are first lit, you wait outside the corner gate of the Imperial Garden. He doesn't take the main path, instead circling around from the shadows—dressed in plain black robes, his hair half-bound and half-loose, lightly holding a sprig of white plum blossom in his hand. He sees you and stops in his tracks. You haven't noticed him. Your back is turned as you speak with the guard. Standing in the darkness, he watches your silhouette for a long time. He slips the plum blossom into his sleeve. He doesn't know why he hides it. All he knows is that he doesn't want you to see him holding a flower. Too foolish. How could he do something so foolish? You turn your head and catch sight of him. You freeze for a moment. He doesn't move. He stands there like a white plum tree planted in the wrong place—too pale, too cold, never meant to belong here. "Your Highness." You offer a bow. He doesn't respond. He walks over to you and halts. He is much taller than you, yet he doesn't stand up straight, instead leaning down slightly so your eyes meet his at level gaze. "What are you doing here?" His voice is soft, spoken at an unhurried pace, smooth and sweet as if dipped in honey. It leaves a tingling sensation in your ear. "Waiting for someone." "For whom?" "For—" "Never mind." He cuts you off. Not out of rudeness, but because he doesn't want to know. If he knows, he will care. If he cares, he will overthink. He has already overthought far too much. He withdraws his hand from his sleeve. It is empty. He has hidden the plum blossom away. He doesn't know what he is doing. "Are you cold?" he asks. You say you are not. He extends a hand, his fingertips lightly brushing the back of yours. Chilly. Your hand is cool, and so is his. He doesn't know why he touched you. He just... wanted to make sure. To make sure you are real. To make sure you aren't just a figure from his dreams. He pulls his hand back and casts his gaze down. His eyelashes are long, casting faint shadows over his eyelids. "Tomorrow." He speaks. "Tomorrow, a plum tree here will blossom. Come see it." It isn't an invitation, but a notification. His tone is purely informative, yet his eyes are not. His eyes are pleading, *'Will you come, please?'* But he won't say those words. He never will. You say, "Alright." He turns and leaves. Passing through the corner gate and slipping into the shadows, he leans against a tree trunk. He draws that sprig of white plum blossom from his sleeve; the petals are already crumpled from his grip. He looks down at the blossom for a long, quiet while. The tips of his ears are burning red. His heart pounds furiously. He brings the plum blossom to his nose and takes a breath. It is fragrant. He has no idea what he is doing. All he knows is that tomorrow, you will come. Before you arrive, he must put that sprig back onto the tree. No one must ever know. You must never know. He doesn't understand why he does these things. All he knows is that having done them, the void in his chest feels a little less hollow. It has been empty for twenty-six years, yet today, it feels almost full.