Next morning—
I wake up to silence.
Like… too quiet.
No Jiang clinging to my side. No warm arm thrown over my waist. No antenna brushing my cheek. Just an empty spot on the bed that's already gone cold.
I sit up, hair sticking everywhere, brain still half asleep.
Then I see it.
A small folded paper on the bedside table.
I pick it up.
Good morning.
Have breakfast.
I have some things to take care of, so I'm leaving early.
…That's it?
No kiss mark.
No "love you."
No stupid doodle of an alien head.
Wow.
"He did this drama thing, huh," I mutter, rubbing my face. "Paper note instead of a message."
I stare at the handwriting. Neat. Careful. Too careful.
Is he still mad?
My stomach twists a little.
I get up and wander into the kitchen. Breakfast is already laid out—toast, eggs, fruit, everything warm and covered neatly like I'm some fragile museum artifact.
Great. He's mad-polite.
That's worse.
I slump into the chair, poking the toast with my finger.
