This happened when knowing became more dangerous than ignorance.
The Immortal Realm was unusually quiet that day.
No summons echoed through the halls. No verdicts were announced. Even the sky above the upper terraces rested in muted hues, as though Heaven itself was holding its breath.
Ling Yue liked days like this.
They felt… borrowed.
She sat on the edge of a low parapet, legs swinging idly as she hummed to herself, fingers weaving a thin ribbon of light between them. The thread looped and twisted playfully, responding to her touch.
"You're doing that wrong."
She startled — then laughed.
"You always say that."
Ye stood a few steps away, arms folded, gaze fixed on the light thread with mild disapproval.
"You're letting it drift," he said. "If it tangles, it snaps."
Ling Yue tilted her head. "But if I hold it too tightly, it breaks anyway."
She smiled up at him. "See? Same result. Different effort."
Ye fell silent.
He had no answer for that.
---
They did not meet like this often.
Never alone.
Never long.
But on days when the realm itself seemed distracted, they found themselves in the same places — pauses in motion, breaths between judgments.
Ling Yue hopped down from the parapet and dusted her hands.
"You know," she said casually, "everyone thinks you don't care about anything."
Ye's expression didn't change. "They're wrong."
"I know," she replied easily.
That made him look at her.
She met his gaze without hesitation, eyes bright, open — too honest for a place built on restraint.
"How?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged. "You always show up where things are broken."
"That's not caring," he said.
"It is," she insisted. "You just don't call it that."
---
They stood in silence for a while.
The kind that didn't demand to be filled.
Ling Yue traced idle patterns on the stone with the tip of her shoe, then spoke again — softer this time.
"Sometimes," she said, "I think… if things were different…"
She trailed off.
Ye's chest tightened.
"Different how?" he asked, though he already knew.
She didn't look at him. "If I weren't assigned to fate. If you weren't… you."
He understood.
Too well.
"You wouldn't choose this place," he said.
She nodded slowly. "No."
Then, quieter: "I don't think I would choose Heaven either."
The words hung between them — fragile, irreversible.
Ye turned fully toward her.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I do," she replied. Her voice trembled, but she didn't pull back. "I forget things, Ye. I know that. But I don't forget how something feels."
That was the most dangerous thing she could have said.
---
He stepped closer — not enough to touch, but close enough that the air between them shifted.
"If you stay near me," he said, voice low and steady, "you will lose more than memories."
She looked up at him, eyes searching his face.
"And if I leave?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Because the truth was worse.
She smiled then — small, sad, understanding.
"You're always choosing for both of us," she said gently.
"I have to."
"Do you?" she asked.
Ye looked away.
That was his answer.
---
Footsteps echoed in the distance.
Ling Yue straightened at once, brightness returning to her expression like armor slipping back into place.
"Oh," she said lightly. "Looks like borrowed time is over."
She took a step back, then paused.
"Ye," she said softly.
He looked at her.
"Even if I forget," she said, smiling, "I think I'll still end up standing where you are."
His breath caught — just once.
She turned and walked away, ribbons of light dissolving behind her.
Ye remained where he was long after she disappeared from view.
He understood then, with terrifying clarity:
Loving her was not the danger.
Letting her stay was.