The doctor's words stayed with me longer than I expected.
Not because they were emotional.
But because they were final.
Some things, once confirmed, stopped being abstract. They demanded structure. Planning. Boundaries.
I had lived most of my life reacting.
I refused to do that now.
The first rule came that morning.
I switched phones.
New number.
New provider.
No synced contacts.
The clerk asked casually, "Anyone you want to transfer?"
"No," I replied.
And meant it.
The second rule followed immediately.
I stopped checking news tied to my old world.
No financial columns.
No social updates.
No whispered headlines.
Ignorance wasn't weakness.
It was insulation.
Across the city, Gu Chengyi noticed the silence.
Not the dramatic kind.
The absolute kind.
No pings routed through mutual contacts.
No campus sightings.
No accidental overlaps.
"She vanished again," his assistant said quietly.
Gu Chengyi stared at the location logs.
"No," he replied. "She didn't vanish."
He exhaled.
"She closed the door."
Han Zhe tried a different approach.
He sent flowers.
Not extravagant.
Not public.
White lilies. Simple. Familiar.
The shop owner called me to confirm delivery.
I declined without hesitation.
"Tell the sender," I said calmly, "not to send anything again."
There was a pause.
"Is everything okay?" the woman asked gently.
"Yes," I answered.
"It finally is."
Shen Yu noticed the returned package.
No note.
No acknowledgment.
Just refusal.
For the first time, he felt uncertainty edge into something sharper.
Respect… or rejection?
He didn't know which frightened him more.
My days found a rhythm.
Morning lectures.
Evening work at the research lab.
Nights spent reading, planning, writing.
No late dinners.
No waiting.
No expectations hovering at the edge of the clock.
I learned the city's quiet corners.
A café where no one asked questions.
A bus route no one from my past would ever take.
A library floor where anonymity felt almost sacred.
This wasn't hiding.
It was choosing.
Then came the call I hadn't expected.
A private number.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
"Yanxi," my mother said softly.
I closed my eyes.
"I'm safe," I said before she could speak.
"I know," she replied. "That's not why I'm calling."
There was a pause.
"They won't stop," she added.
"I know."
"And if they cross a line?"
"They already did," I said evenly. "I just didn't name it before."
Silence stretched between us.
Then, quietly, "I'm proud of you."
The words hit harder than any accusation ever had.
That night, I updated my rules again.
No returns framed as concern.
No apologies without accountability.
No love that requires disappearance.
I underlined the last one twice.
Somewhere, three men were learning the same lesson from different angles.
Gu Chengyi learned it through loss of access.
Han Zhe learned it through rejection.
Shen Yu learned it through restraint.
None of them liked the feeling.
As for me—
I stood at my window, watching the city breathe.
I didn't feel brave.
I felt deliberate.
And that was stronger.
Because the most dangerous thing about a woman who has been underestimated—
Is not when she leaves.
It's when she decides exactly how far she will let anyone follow.