Lin Yue changed the pattern first.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
She changed it where only repetition would notice.
⸻
On the morning of the ninety-fourth day, she arrived at the annex exactly on time.
Not early.
Not late.
Exactly.
Prince Shen Rui noticed immediately.
"You're punctual," he said.
"Yes."
"You weren't yesterday."
"I adjusted."
"To what?"
"To the distance," she replied.
He did not ask her to explain.
He understood.
⸻
They sat at opposite ends of the table.
Not far.
Not close.
A distance chosen, not inherited.
⸻
Tea was poured.
She did not refill his cup when it emptied.
He did not ask.
⸻
They spoke only of tasks.
Reports.
Routes.
Schedules.
No pauses lingered long enough to become personal.
No silence stretched until it demanded meaning.
⸻
It was efficient.
That was the problem.
⸻
By the ninety-fifth day, the palace began to adjust.
Servants stopped glancing between them.
Officials addressed Prince Shen Rui without hesitation, without checking Lin Yue's reaction.
Her presence shifted from *constant* to *conditional*.
The palace approved.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui did not.
He noticed the absence before he noticed the reason.
"You didn't stay," he said that afternoon.
"I wasn't needed."
"You usually—"
"I wasn't needed," she repeated gently.
He closed his mouth.
Acceptance arrived slower for him.
⸻
On the ninety-sixth day, she did not sit.
She stood while speaking.
Moved while listening.
Never still long enough for familiarity to reattach.
Prince Shen Rui followed her movements with his eyes.
"You're doing this on purpose," he said.
"Yes."
"Why now?"
"Because now," she replied, "habit would become cruelty."
⸻
He exhaled.
"So this is mercy."
"No," she said quietly. "This is preparation."
The word landed heavily.
⸻
That evening, Prince Shen Rui received a summons.
A minor one.
Routine.
He returned later than usual.
Lin Yue had already left.
The annex felt hollowed.
Not empty.
Carved.
⸻
On the ninety-seventh day, they did not meet.
On the ninety-eighth, they passed each other in the corridor.
They stopped.
Bow.
Acknowledge.
Continue.
Perfectly appropriate.
Perfectly wrong.
⸻
That night, Prince Shen Rui stood at the window longer than necessary.
He pressed his palm to the sill, grounding himself.
This was what it meant to be phased out.
Not erased.
Rearranged.
⸻
Lin Yue felt it too.
She returned to her quarters earlier than usual, her steps measured, her posture composed.
She opened the calendar.
The marked date did not move.
It did not need to.
She closed the book and placed it away.
Distance required consistency.
⸻
On the ninety-ninth day, Prince Shen Rui spoke first.
"You're not angry," he said.
"No."
"You're not afraid."
"No."
"You're… precise."
"Yes."
He nodded slowly.
"That hurts more."
"I know."
⸻
They sat again, opposite ends, hands visible, movements minimal.
Professional.
Controlled.
The kiss was not mentioned.
It did not need to be.
It existed now only as pressure—unapplied, but felt.
⸻
"If I cross this distance," he said quietly, "will you stop me?"
"Yes."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will move further away."
He absorbed that.
"I won't test it."
"Thank you."
⸻
Outside, the palace bells rang.
Ordinary.
Unconcerned.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui gathered his documents.
Lin Yue stood.
Their movements synchronized without intention.
At the door, he paused.
"You're staying," he said.
"Yes."
"But not like before."
"No."
He nodded.
"That's… fair."
She did not correct him.
Fairness was not the goal.
Survivability was.
⸻
After he left, Lin Yue remained for a moment.
She looked at the space between the chairs.
Measured it with her eyes.
Committed it to memory.
⸻
Distance, she had learned, was not the opposite of love.
It was its most disciplined form.
And discipline—
Was how you survived what could not be changed.
Distance did not announce itself.
It learned.
⸻
By the hundredth day, the palace had fully adapted.
Lin Yue's name was spoken less.
Her presence assumed, not checked.
She became part of the background machinery—reliable, unobtrusive, efficient.
That was how things survived here.
⸻
Prince Shen Rui felt the change in subtler ways.
The annex door closed faster.
Conversations ended cleaner.
Silence arrived earlier—and stayed longer.
Not hostile.
Organized.
⸻
He tested nothing.
That was his restraint.
⸻
One afternoon, he entered the annex to find Lin Yue already standing near the table, hands folded.
No tea prepared.
No seat claimed.
"You didn't wait," he observed.
"I didn't assume," she replied.
A difference he understood immediately.
⸻
He removed his outer robe slowly.
"You're teaching the room how to exist without us," he said.
"Yes."
"And yourself?"
"Yes."
That answer took longer to accept.
⸻
They spoke of a route adjustment.
A courier delay.
A minor inventory miscount.
Necessary things.
Replaceable things.
Prince Shen Rui noticed how quickly she redirected the conversation whenever it drifted.
Not abruptly.
Gracefully.
As if steering a boat away from shallow water before it scraped.
⸻
"You're very good at this," he said quietly.
"At what?"
"At leaving without leaving."
Lin Yue met his gaze.
"That's the point."
⸻
Later, a servant entered to collect documents.
She glanced once—just once—between them.
No curiosity.
No speculation.
Confirmation.
The palace approved again.
⸻
Afterward, Prince Shen Rui stood alone near the window.
"You'll forget the sound of this room," he said, not turning.
"No," Lin Yue replied. "I won't."
"You won't keep everything."
"I know."
"What will you keep?"
She considered.
"Patterns," she said. "Not moments."
He nodded slowly.
Patterns were harder to erase.
⸻
When she left that day, she did not look back.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because she didn't need to.
The distance now held.
⸻
That night, Prince Shen Rui opened a ledger and paused mid-line.
He could not remember when Lin Yue had last laughed.
Not because it hadn't happened—
But because it no longer belonged to him.
⸻
Across the palace, Lin Yue extinguished her lamp earlier than usual.
She lay awake in the dark.
Distance worked.
That was the cruelty of it.
⸻
She understood now:
Some separations were not endings.
They were rehearsals.
And rehearsals—
Were how you taught the body to survive what the heart already knew was coming.