Disclaimer: BBJX not mine.
Summary: At twenty-five, Zhang Xiao carries a silent retinue of ghosts.
Life in the After
What they shared was beautiful, all consuming. Even the hatred and the regret had been exquisite beyond compare. Perhaps that was their downfall. Perhaps they should have guarded that last inch of themselves. Instead, they shattered each other into a million glorious shards; loved each other to cinders.
Saturday morning, she curls up by her window ledge and spreads her fingertips against the thrumming glass, remembering the turn of his profile when he tells her he prefers the rain.
She stares up into the stormy sky and grins shakily. Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, we've left them all behind.
Wandering the shopping aisles, she hesitates by an antique tea set. The delicate bone china glistens almost translucent beneath the artificial lights. Ignoring the flow and ebb of people milling past, she comes to a standstill. And right there, in the middle of a supermarket in the twenty first century, she loses herself.
She dreams in dark, winding paths, every one leading to him. She is running, breathless and helpless with longing. The ground is scattered with porcelain chips, cutting into her palms and knees when she stumbles. Her heart screams and rages for her to crawl on, but it always hurts too much to obey.
Her close friends are quick to notice the change in her dating habits.
One asks her bluntly, "When did you become interested in the strong, silent type?"
The coffee cup in Zhang Xiao's hand tips, spilling hot liquid onto the table, startling both of them.
Laughing, her friend waves a careless hand. "Forget I asked!" And she laughs along, so hard her eyes sting.
At the door, he gently wraps his fingers around her wrist, delaying her departure. She turns and almost closes her eyes in expectation, but he doesn't lean in.
"Tell me about him."
Through the gathering darkness, she stares wordlessly up at him.
"Tell me how he hurt you." He leans in now, pressing his forehead against hers. "So I know what I'm up against."
She touches his cheek and breathes in the scent of cologne and despair. You're three hundred years too late. Aching for them both, she smiles and whispers, "There's no one."
The wedding is a sea of white silk and freshwater pearl. When the music swells, she rests her head against his shoulder, feeling the cool fabric against her cheek and the warm, steady weight of him beneath. He bends to kiss her hair, just above the pinned magnolia flower.
-end-