After returning to Paris, Chen Tao's life seemed calm on the surface, yet the nights were always agonizing. Outside of work, he often woke in the middle of the night, his mind replaying the images of those few days in New York—the curve of Li Ming's smile, that familiar warmth, and the unspoken flutter of emotion. He tossed and turned, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his heart like a tide repeatedly crashing against the shore, never ceasing. Each pang of longing felt like a tiny needle silently piercing his blood, leaving him tense without a sound.
On the weekend, he accompanied his wife to Merci, the concept store quiet and refined. Glassware was neatly arranged on wooden shelves, refracting calm, soft light. His wife paused in front of a row of cups, comparing their weight and feel. He reached out to hand one to her, fingertips brushing the glass, cold and clear. The small gesture stirred an emptiness in his mind, and his thoughts inevitably drifted back to that night in New York—the side of Li Ming leaning lightly against him, their fingers grazing, the warmth in her gaze.
In the afternoon, he met with colleagues from the magazine at Flower Café to discuss the upcoming architecture feature. Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, mingling with the aroma of coffee and the rustle of pages, creating a quiet rhythm. He laughed in response to his colleagues, but his eyes carried a trace of distance, his mind wandering back to the streets of New York, the café at night, and Li Ming's presence.
In these days, reality and the yearnings in his heart intertwined—the weekend shopping, office meetings, his roles as husband and father—all reminded him of life's order; yet the solitude of night and memory made him feel another kind of absence. Chen Tao understood that this entanglement could not be fully resolved with reason, nor easily folded into daily routine. His emotions flowed like a river, quietly converging and colliding, never at rest.
One late night, unable to contain himself any longer, he picked up his phone and dialed Li Ming's number. Silence stretched, dense as frozen air, but Li Ming could feel the tension and confusion hidden in his voice. She spoke softly, offering reassurance: "We cannot be lovers, but in the future we can accompany each other like family."
Meanwhile, in Washington, Li Ming was experiencing subtle shifts in her own heart. Back in the familiar city, she immersed herself in projects at the firm, moving between construction sites and the office by day, displaying her usual calm professionalism. Yet at night, when streetlights cast long patterns on the floor and the city's noise was muted, her thoughts inevitably drifted to New York—the warmth of Chen Tao's smile, the nighttime café streets, and that gentle, familiar presence.
The comfort in Chen Tao's voice over the phone allowed her heart to soften slightly. Even if they could not be lovers, this "family-like companionship" made the nights feel warm and secure. Li Ming leaned back in the chair by her desk, eyes closed, absorbing the stillness around her. Her breathing was steady and gentle, like leaves moving in the breeze outside, quietly soothing the loneliness within.
Paris and Washington—two cities, two parallel lives—separated, yet subtly intertwined. Chen Tao's hand trembled slightly as he held the phone in the night, while Li Ming sighed lightly by the window, her emotions rising and falling with the shadows and light. Reason and feeling interwove within them both, past memories merging with present warmth—the gentle closeness of that New York night, the subtle brush of her side, still flowed softly in their hearts, like water, filling the emptiness of the night and adding a quiet comfort to ordinary days.