Disclaimer: Bu Bu Jing Xin not mine.

Summary: All the remnants of a love story. The things they should have said. 4th/RX


Watching the sunlight dappling the inside of her wrist pouring tea, he is inexplicably moved. Like a line of poetry that speaks to his heart; like the distant memory of his father's hand, warm against his nape.

His brothers' voices flow indistinct around the silent island of them both. And when their fingertips brush beneath the china cup, he is gently undone.

He will keep her safe. She's done with kisses in the grass and tender promises, unkept. This is a rational decision; this will be a controlled burn.

(Ruo Xi, is it possible you don't understand your own heart?

Only you can know if it is worthwhile.

Don't lie to me.)

Just like that, the last latch snicks open. And she flings headlong into the flame.

There are no comparisons, no words, nothing with which to defend or define.

He's heard of love being a fall; of passion the blindfold; yet there is only surrender. He's nothing left to fall, no sight left to blind. All hers. All hers.

She's sat unmoving here for hours. The maids have cajoled and pleaded; but she can only focus on those few inches of sunlight spilling across the floor. As the inches have faded, she's wished for less and less. To explain to him; to say goodbye; to see him.

When the room is pitch black, she links her fingers and closes her eyes. His hand in my hand. Just that much.

How long she had waited? How forsaken must she have felt, watching that empty doorway–

He hunches lower over his half-read document, lines of acid running down his face.

Forget everything, keep only this: I began and ended with you.