Silence wasn’t new to Bailey Dofen.  

She’d trained in it, lived in it, even learned to breathe through it.  

But this silence—the kind that came after him—felt heavier.  

It didn’t hum. It lingered.

The days after the scandal blurred together.  

She woke, practiced, smiled when she had to.  

Every motion was muscle memory.  

Every night, she caught herself checking her phone, only to remind herself she’d told him *not to call.*

Still, she never deleted his number.  

She couldn’t.  

It felt like cutting off oxygen.

Kaiylin watched her one morning, arms crossed, coffee in hand.  

“You’re pretending again,” she said.

“I’m working,” Bailey replied.

“Same thing, in your language.”

“I have a tournament.”

“You have avoidance issues.”

Bailey sighed. “Is there a reason you’re here, or just to psychoanalyze me before breakfast?”

“Both,” Kaiylin said. “Also, your breakfast is depressing. Who eats half a rice wrap and regret?”

“Efficient people.”

“Lonely people,” Kaiylin corrected.

Bailey shot her a look. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Kaiylin took a sip. “You miss him.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t.”

“You just blinked too hard.”

Bailey groaned. “You should write fortune cookies.”

“Already do,” Kaiylin said. “All of them say *‘Call him.’*”

Man Olid, meanwhile, was terrible at pretending.

He’d buried himself in meetings, numbers, and polite smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.  

His mother noticed first.

“You’ve been quiet,” Xuewei said one evening over dinner.

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Into what? A monk?”

He gave a weak laugh. “Would make the tabloids happier.”

Her eyes softened. “You care about her.”

“That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

He looked down at his untouched glass. “She told me to stay away.”

“Did you listen?”

“For once.”

Xuewei studied him for a long time. “You know, love isn’t always about showing up.”

“I thought that was your rule.”

“It is. But sometimes, love is about *not* making someone choose between peace and you.”

He frowned. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Wait,” she said. “And mean it.”

Bailey tried.  

She told herself she was fine, that focus was her best defense.  

But when she stepped onto the court, something felt wrong.  

The shuttle moved too light. The sound of impact too sharp.  

Every rhythm reminded her of his voice, his laugh, his steady way of saying *breathe.*

After practice, she sat on the bench, watching the dust float in the sunlight.  

Her phone buzzed—an unknown number.

She hesitated, then opened it.

**M: “Don’t answer. Just read.”**

Her heart stopped.

**M: “I’m not calling, like you asked. But I still wanted you to know—”**  

**M: “Every time I see a rainstorm, I hope you’re inside.”**  

**M: “Every time I hear silence, I hope it’s the good kind.”**  

**M: “The kind that means peace, not pain.”**  

**M: “I miss you, Bailey. Not the version that smiles. You.”**

She stared at the screen until her eyes blurred.  

Then, slowly, she typed back.

**B: “You’re not supposed to text me.”**

A minute passed.

**M: “I know. I’m terrible at following rules.”**

**B: “And boundaries.”**

**M: “And pretending I don’t care.”**

Her throat tightened. She set the phone down on her lap, unable to look at it.  

But when it buzzed again, she couldn’t stop herself.

**M: “You once told me I talk too much.”**  

**M: “So I’ll stop. Just promise me one thing.”**  

**M: “When the noise comes back—don’t shut it out. Let it stay.”**

She didn’t reply.  

But that night, when the wind rattled her window, she smiled.  

Because for the first time in weeks, the silence didn’t sound empty.  

It sounded like him.

Two days later, she won her match.  

Clean, perfect, beautiful.  

When the shuttle hit the floor, she heard everything—the roar, the clap, the rush of breath.

Afterward, reporters asked how she felt.

“Good,” she said. “Loud.”

They laughed. She didn’t.

That night, she texted him.

**B: “I played today.”**  

**M: “I know. I watched.”**  

**B: “I heard everything this time.”**  

**M: “Even your heart?”**  

**B: “Especially that.”**

And though there were no more messages after, she didn’t need them.  

The air between them was full again—  

like silence had finally learned how to love.