"You burned them," Rhea cried, twisting violently in Kane's grip. "You burned them!"
Kane tightened her hold, pulling Rhea back as ash lifted into the air like black snow.
"I did what I had to," Kane said, voice strained but firm. "You were spiraling."
"They were mine!" Rhea sobbed. "Mine!"
She dropped to her knees on the cold stone, hands clawing at the ground as if she could reach the fire from there, as if she could pull something back before it vanished completely.
The flames crackled.
A corner of paper lifted, revealing half a sentence before collapsing into ash.
I love you Mis__.
Rhea saw it.
Her breath broke completely.
She crawled forward.
Kane released her grip only to drop beside her, wrapping her arms around Rhea's shoulders, holding her back with her own body.
"Look at me," Kane demanded. "Rhea, look at me."
Rhea didn't.
Her eyes were locked on the fire.
"She wrote all night," Rhea whispered, voice hoarse, distant. "She didn't sleep. She wrapped them herself."
Kane's throat tightened.
"She hurt you," Kane said. "That doesn't get erased because she knows how to write."
Rhea shook violently in her arms.
"I didn't forgive her," Rhea cried. "I wasn't ready. But they were proof she still—"
She couldn't finish.
Her entire body folded inward as if something essential had been ripped out.
Kane pulled her tighter, one hand pressing firmly against the back of Rhea's head, forcing it into her chest, blocking the sight of the flames.
"Enough," Kane said, voice breaking now despite herself. "Enough."
Rhea sobbed into her, fists clutching Kane's clothes like a child drowning.
"I wanted to read them alone," she cried. "I wanted to hate her properly."
The fire began to die down, collapsing into glowing embers.
Ash drifted across the garden.
Silence followed heavy, suffocating.
Kane closed her eyes.
She had won the battle.
And she knew, with sick certainty, that she had lost something far worse.
Rhea's crying slowed not because it eased, but because something inside her shut down.
Her body went limp.
Kane stiffened.
"Rhea?" she whispered.
No answer.
Rhea stared blankly ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, tears still slipping down her face without sound.
The fire crackled one last time, then settled into darkness.
Kane held her daughter tightly in the cold night, surrounded by smoke and ash, realizing too late:
She hadn't burned paper.
She had burned the last place Rhea was still alive.
Rhea didn't say anything.
She stood up slowly, as if her body belonged to someone else. Kane reached for her wrist, instinctively, urgently.
"Rhea—"
Rhea pulled away.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
Just… final.
She walked back inside without looking at her mother once. Her steps were steady, empty, detached. Kane followed her to the stairs, watching helplessly as Rhea climbed, one step at a time, shoulders rigid, spine straight like she was holding herself together with nothing but stubbornness.
At the top of the stairs, Rhea stopped.
She turned her head slightly.
"Don't follow me," she said.
Her voice wasn't angry.
That scared Kane more than screaming ever could.
Rhea entered her room and shut the door.
Then she locked it.
The click echoed louder than any shout.
Her back hit the door as she slid down, hands coming up to her face too late to stop the sound that tore out of her throat. Her crying wasn't loud at first it was strangled, broken, like she was trying to keep it inside and failing.
She pressed her forehead into her knees, rocking slightly.
Gone.
All gone.
Her mind replayed everything she hadn't read.
The handwriting she recognized instantly.
The way Ling curved certain letters.
The pauses between words the places where Ling always hesitated when she was being honest.
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut.
"She didn't sleep," Rhea whispered to the empty room. "She stayed up all night…"
Her chest tightened painfully.
She imagined Ling sitting somewhere pen in hand, jacket discarded, hair falling into her eyes writing, tearing pages, rewriting, wrapping each gift with precision, irritation, care. Ling's stubborn focus. Ling's obsession with doing things herself only which are too important to her.
Ling never delegated what mattered.
Rhea's breathing became uneven.
"She wrote those for me," she whispered again. "Even when she didn't have to."
She dragged herself to the bed and collapsed onto it face-down, fingers gripping the sheets as if they could anchor her.
Her mind filled in the blanks cruelly.
I'm sorry.
I know I hurt you.
I don't know how to love gently, but I'm trying.
You're still mine — even if you hate me.
Rhea let out a broken sob.
"I didn't even read you," she cried. "I didn't even give you that."
Her body curled inward, knees drawn to her chest, as if she could fold herself small enough to escape the ache spreading through her ribs.
She remembered the weight of Ling's gaze.
The way Ling watched her without blinking.
The way Ling paid attention to things Rhea never spoke aloud.
And now — ash.
Her hands trembled as she covered her mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming. Tears soaked into the pillow, relentless, unstoppable.
"She stayed awake," Rhea said again, voice raw, stuck on the thought like it was a wound she couldn't stop touching. "All night… for me…"
Her breathing suddenly hitched hard, sharp, like something inside her chest collapsed.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding into her hairline, eyes unfocused.
"I wanted to hate you properly," she whispered. "I wanted to be strong."
Her lips trembled.
"But you don't write like that unless you still care."
Silence filled the room thick, suffocating.
Outside the locked door, Kane stood frozen, listening to nothing, because Rhea wasn't loud anymore.
That frightened her more than anything.
Inside, Rhea finally turned her face to the side and closed her eyes, exhaustion crashing over her like a wave.
Her crying slowed not because it healed, but because her body had nothing left to give.
The last thing she thought before sleep dragged her under was not Kane.
It was a single, devastating realization:
Ling Kwong had loved her enough to stay awake all night.
And Rhea would never know exactly how much.
——
Morning came without mercy.
Rhea didn't wake refreshed. She woke emptied.
Her eyes were swollen, skin pale, movements mechanical. Kane watched her silently as she dressed, said nothing when Rhea skipped breakfast, nothing when she didn't look up once.
The drive to university was quiet.
Too quiet.
Roin kept glancing at her from the passenger seat, concern tightening his jaw. Rhea stared out the window, expression blank, as if the world outside no longer required her attention.
When they reached campus, students moved around them in clusters laughing, talking, living. It felt obscene.
Inside the lecture hall, Rhea walked straight to the back row.
She dropped her bag on the bench and sat down.
Roin followed instinctively.
"Sit in the front," Rhea said suddenly, without looking at him.
Roin stopped. "What?"
"Front," she repeated, flat. "Not with me."
He hesitated. "Rhea, listen—"
She turned then.
Her eyes were dry, sharp, exhausted the kind of look that warned of damage if crossed.
"I said no," she cut in. "Don't sit here."
Roin swallowed. "I'm just trying to—"
"Don't," Rhea snapped.
The word landed hard.
Heads nearby shifted slightly. Rhea lowered her voice, but it didn't soften.
"You talk too much," she said. "And today I don't want to hear a single word."
Roin stiffened. "You're angry. I get that. But pushing everyone away—"
"Is my decision," Rhea interrupted. "Not yours."
She turned back toward the front, dismissing him completely.
Roin stood there for a second longer, jaw clenched, pride bruised, worry unresolved. Then, reluctantly, he moved toward the front rows.
Rhea didn't watch him go.
She leaned back against the cold wall, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her, hands resting motionless in her lap.
Around her, the lecture hall filled.
Voices blended into noise.
Time passed.
She felt nothing.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Not even the ache from last night.
Just a hollow pressure in her chest like something essential had been scooped out and never replaced.
Her mind drifted, uninvited.
Ink.
Paper.
Fire.
She clenched her jaw.
Don't.
She forced her gaze to the board, to the professor, to anything that wasn't memory.
Ling Kwong stood near the faculty building, jacket thrown over one shoulder, phone untouched in her hand for once. Students moved around her instinctively giving space — the usual fear, the usual respect but Ling barely registered them.
Her attention was fixed on the main path.
She was waiting.
Ling's mind replayed the image of Rhea the night before not the screaming, not the anger but the quiet way Rhea had carried those gifts away. The way she had tried to hide them. The way her hands had trembled despite the defiance.
She read them, Ling told herself.
She had to believe that.
Ling had stayed awake all night for a reason. Not begging. Not apologizing. Writing — carefully, obsessively — each letter different, each one saying what her mouth could never shape properly. Rage softened into truth between lines. Possession tangled with regret. Love distorted but unmistakable.
She convinced herself Rhea had read at least one.
That Rhea knew.
Ling leaned against the stone railing, eyes sharp, scanning faces as students arrived. Her jaw tightened every time someone with dark hair passed. Every time laughter sounded too close.
She straightened when she finally saw her.
Rhea walked beside Roin.
Ling's breath stuttered just for a second.
Rhea looked… altered. Not broken. Not angry. Empty. Her posture was upright, controlled, but something vital was missing from the way she moved. No sharp glances. No reactive tension. Just distance.
Ling frowned slightly.
She's acting, Ling thought. She's angry. That's fine.
Anger meant feeling.
She watched as they entered the building together.
Ling waited.
Minutes passed.
Students poured into lecture halls. Ling followed at a distance, slow, deliberate, letting Rhea enter first. She expected it the moment Rhea would turn, confront her, throw the words back at her face.
Nothing happened.
Inside the lecture hall, Ling paused at the door.
Rhea was already seated.
At the back.
Alone.
Roin stood hesitating beside her.
Ling's eyes narrowed as she watched the exchange unfold. Rhea spoke short, cold. Roin tried to respond. Rhea shut him down without even raising her voice.
Ling felt something sharp twist in her chest.
That's my Rhea,she thought instinctively then stopped herself.
No.
Not hers.
Not anymore.
Ling moved to her usual seat near the front but didn't sit. She leaned back instead, arms crossed, watching Rhea from the reflection in the glass panel. Waiting for a glance. A reaction. Anything.
Rhea didn't look up.
Not once.
The professor began speaking. Notes appeared on the board. Pens moved. Time passed.
Ling's confidence began to fracture.
She should have said something by now.
Her jaw clenched.
Ling had imagined anger accusations, tears, even hatred. She had prepared herself for that. She could handle fury. She thrived on it.
But this… this absence?
It unsettled her.
Ling shifted in her seat, eyes flicking back again.
Rhea sat perfectly still, gaze fixed ahead, face composed in a way that felt unfamiliar. As if she had sealed something shut overnight.
Ling's fingers tightened against her thigh.
She read them, Ling repeated in her head, more forcefully now. She had to.
Because the alternative — that Rhea never got to read a single word — clawed too close to something unbearable.
Ling swallowed.
For the first time since executing her revenge, a crack appeared in her certainty.
And somewhere deep, unspoken and unwanted, a thought began to form:
What if she never knew?
Ling didn't move for the rest of the lecture.
But her eyes never left the girl at the back the one she had broken, the one she still loved, and the one who now sat beyond her reach, silent in a way that felt far more dangerous than rage.
The lecture ended.
Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Life resumed around her like nothing had happened.
Rhea stood only when the hall had mostly emptied. Her body felt heavier than it had in the morning, like gravity had increased just for her. She walked the corridor slowly, bag hanging from one shoulder, eyes lowered.
She told herself not to go there.
She told herself to walk past.
Her feet stopped anyway.
Her locker stood exactly where it always had silver, ordinary, unremarkable.
Rhea reached for the handle.