On rainy days, the café was always packed.

After leaving the outskirts, the two found a quiet corner seat by the window.

Shen Bingjing ordered a flavored latte. When asked, Mo Xuan didn’t hesitate. “White coffee.”

“Since when do you like white coffee?” Shen Bingjing frowned. He used to drink cappuccino.

“Oh… Yun Jiumo likes this flavor,” Mo Xuan blurted out without thinking.

Silence dropped like a stone. The fragile ease between them shattered. Mo Xuan watched Shen Bingjing’s expression darken the moment that name left his lips.

She tried to hide her discomfort, but her darting eyes betrayed her. Frustrated, she clenched her slender wrist—fair skin marked with faint red lines.

Mo Xuan fell silent too, remembering the rift between them.

Rain streamed down the thick glass. Outside, the bustling street blurred into streaks of iridescent light.

Finally, Shen Bingjing broke the quiet. “How have you been?”

“Not bad.”

“So… not satisfied?”

“Why?”

“If you were truly happy, you’d say ‘good.’ ‘Not bad’? What kind of answer is that?” A cold, faint smile touched her lips.

Mo Xuan gazed at her beautiful face—so familiar, yet utterly distant. A wave of disorientation washed over him.

He remembered the girl she used to be: lively, laughing, never speaking in that sarcastic tone, never mocking someone she cared about.

But her words, her demeanor now screamed that nothing remained of the past.

Time had reshaped them all. Familiar faces gone. Memories faded. Only those who’d surrendered to life drifted onward, down paths they never chose.

The coffee arrived. Unaware, Mo Xuan took a sip—and nearly spat it out from the scalding heat.

Shen Bingjing kept her head down, stirring sugar into her cup. She had a sweet tooth. Mo Xuan recalled a prank: he’d bought her takeaway black coffee, lied it was sweet. She gulped it down without hesitation. He’d been chased two blocks before Shen Bingyao finally calmed her.

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

Shen Bingjing looked up, utterly bewildered. No warmth. No joy of reunion.

“How long have you been married?” she blurted out.

“A year.” Mo Xuan answered truthfully. A strange heaviness settled in his chest.

“Congratulations.” She gave a slight nod. No sincerity. No warmth.

“In the end… she won.”

“My sister was utterly defeated.”

After a long silence, Mo Xuan forced the words out, voice strained: “Shen Bingyao… why did she take her own life?”

The spoon stilled. Her expression crumbled like shattered eggshell, layer by layer, until only smooth, cold blankness remained.

She lowered her thick lashes, staring into the swirling brown liquid—mirroring her turbulent life.

“After detention, her condition fluctuated—good days, bad days.” Shen Bingjing took a slow breath, steadying her voice though a chill lingered. “By day, she was lucid. By night… she’d toss and turn, needing pills to sleep. Often, she’d sob uncontrollably, crying your name, tearing blankets and pillows apart.”

Mo Xuan froze.

“She avoided mirrors… yet knew exactly how she looked. During episodes, she’d cover her face, wailing she was ugly, that you wouldn’t want her. If unstopped… she’d bang her head against the wall. We were terrified.”

Her voice stayed flat.

Mo Xuan swallowed hard. Bitterness flooded his throat.

“Back then, it wasn’t so bad. Only when she thought of you. We moved. Erased every trace of you. The doctor said… if she forgot you, she might start anew.”

“So I was the culprit,” Mo Xuan murmured with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

Shen Bingjing didn’t smile. She fixed him with a piercing gaze, fingers tightening around her cup.

“We believed she’d heal. But we underestimated her pain. One day—without warning—she shattered a glass. Carved your name into her thighs, stroke by stroke. Blood soaked the floor.”

“We found her unconscious. They saved her body… but her mind broke again. We had no choice but to admit her.”

“…I’m sorry…”

“No apology needed. It wasn’t your fault. Blame my sister—for loving you so deeply.”

Mo Xuan heard the raw pain and sharp mockery woven into her words. Each syllable cut deeper than a blade.

In her eyes, the light dimmed, little by little.

“The doctor warned us to prepare for the worst.”

“I quit my job. Stayed next to her room at the hospital under the guise of volunteering. Watched over her day and night.”

“Months passed. Her condition slowly improved. She even began recalling memories.”

Shen Bingjing lifted her head, eyes burning into him. “She asked about you. Where you were. What you were doing.”

“What did you say?” Mo Xuan’s lips twisted slightly.

“I lied. Said I didn’t know. That you were busy with business elsewhere. Unmarried. Preoccupied.”

“She smiled. Murmured about getting better, visiting you… forgetting the scars on her face. I played along. Pretended we’d visit you together someday.”

“Then… she had an accident.” A faint smile touched her lips. Her eyes glistened.

“I can’t recount the details. That day, I was away. By the time the director called… she was already standing on the rooftop railing.”

“Her progress had been steady. She’d begged for fresh air—especially the rooftop breeze. The weather was perfect. We agreed.”

“The attendant wheeled her up… then crouched aside, scrolling her phone.”

“By the time she noticed, my sister stood alone at the edge.”

“Firefighters came. Everyone pleaded. She wouldn’t listen.”

“I rushed back. Looked up… and saw her falling.”

Shen Bingjing’s eyes were deep black, skin pale as snow. Cradling the cold cup, her voice drifted like a stranger’s tale:

“In that moment… I felt she became a butterfly. Leaving us behind.”

“She’d dreamed of it long ago. Confined to a wheelchair, she longed to run free. She told me: ‘I want to be a butterfly. Go wherever I please.’”

“Now… she truly is one.

Only the place she flew to… wasn’t the sky.

It was hell.”