"He'll probably answer in under thirty seconds," Meera said confidently.
"Why."
"Because emotionally unavailable people are still people, Chen." She paused. "And that boy has been waiting for you to stop pretending separation solved anything."
Xu Chen's throat tightened unexpectedly.
The typing indicator appeared for less than two seconds.
Then disappeared.
Xu Chen said nothing.
On the other end of the call, Meera sighed. "You're staring at the screen right now, aren't you?"
Xu Chen did not answer.
The conversation window remained still.
No reply arrived.
Outside the glass doors, the garden lights continued casting pale gold across the stone pathway below the villa. Somewhere farther down the mountain road, a vehicle passed briefly before vanishing back into the quiet.
Nothing changed.
Which somehow made the silence worse.
Meera sighed dramatically through the speaker. "You know, if I had known both of you would process feelings like endangered ancient manuscripts, I would have chosen different friends."
Xu Chen leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the balcony.
"He may be asleep."
"Aum?" Meera sounded unconvinced. "That man probably treats sleep like optional software maintenance."
Despite himself, Xu Chen glanced back down at the phone.
Still nothing.
A strange heaviness settled slowly in his chest.
Unreasonable.
He knew it was unreasonable.
Aum did not owe him immediate replies. They had spent seven days barely speaking beyond practical exchanges. Xu Chen himself had been the one maintaining distance carefully enough that even silence had become routine.
Still—
The absence of a response felt larger tonight.
Meera's voice softened slightly.
"You're overthinking again."
"I sent one sentence."
"Yes, and then emotionally attached your entire nervous system to it."
Xu Chen closed his eyes briefly.
That was irritatingly accurate.
Before he could answer, the phone vibrated quietly in his hand.
Xu Chen looked down immediately.
Aum.
His pulse shifted once—sharp enough to annoy him instantly.
Meera caught the silence.
"Oh, there it is," she said knowingly. "Go. I'm hanging up before you start pretending you weren't staring at the screen."
"Meera—"
"Goodnight, Chen."
The line disconnected before he could respond.
Xu Chen looked back at the message.
Aum:The bookstore closed one hour and seventeen minutes ago.
A second message appeared almost immediately.
Aum:You are awake unusually late.
Xu Chen stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Then typed:
You replied unusually slowly.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Xu Chen found himself watching the movement too carefully.
Finally:
Aum:I was considering the correct response duration.
Xu Chen blinked once.
Then, unexpectedly, laughed quietly under his breath.
Of course.
Of course Aum had calculated response timing.
Another message arrived.
Aum:Meera informed me that immediate replies on Earth can create incorrect emotional implications.
Xu Chen leaned his head briefly back against the wall.
Somewhere between the embarrassment and amusement, something inside his chest loosened for the first time all evening.
He typed:
You listened to Meera?
Aum:Temporarily.
A pause.
Then:
Aum:I determined her advice was strategically questionable after approximately four minutes.
Xu Chen could almost see the expressionless seriousness with which Aum had probably reached that conclusion.
The image stayed in his mind too easily.
Xu Chen looked at the messages quietly.
Simple conversation.
Nothing significant.
And yet the oppressive stillness that had filled the villa earlier had already changed shape.
Dangerously quickly.
He pushed himself away from the wall and walked slowly back toward the kitchen.
The lights turned on automatically as he entered.
The untouched kettle remained where he had left it earlier.
Xu Chen looked at it briefly before typing again.
Did you eat dinner?
The reply came after a short pause.
Aum:Yes.
Then:
Aum:At 19:12.
Xu Chen's mouth moved faintly.
Still exact.
Still impossible.
Still Aum.
He filled the kettle this time without thinking about it.
Aum:You are making tea.
Xu Chen stopped mid-motion.
Then frowned slightly at the screen.
How do you know?
Three dots appeared.
Aum:You ask practical questions when performing repetitive domestic actions.
Xu Chen stared at the sentence.
His hand tightened slightly around the kettle handle.
The realization arrived quietly.
Aum had memorized him too.
Not in broad emotional ways.
In patterns.
In habits.
In small behavioral shifts hidden inside ordinary conversation.
Xu Chen placed the kettle down carefully onto the base.
The soft click echoed through the kitchen.
Neither of them sent another message immediately afterward.
But the silence no longer felt strained.
It felt occupied.
Finally, Xu Chen typed:
Meera mentioned Sanyuejie.
A longer pause followed this time.
Then:
Aum:Yes.
Another pause.
Aum:She stated the cultural density would be "good for my psychological development."*
The kettle began heating softly in the background.
Steam had not formed yet, but the faint mechanical hum filled the kitchen comfortably.
Xu Chen looked toward the empty space across the counter unconsciously.
Then back at the screen.
Will you go?
This time, the reply took longer.
Long enough that Xu Chen felt the return of that strange tightness beneath his ribs.
Then finally:
Aum:Will you?
Xu Chen stared at the question.
Simple.
Direct.
Entirely unfair.
Because suddenly the conversation no longer felt like discussion about a festival.
It felt like something else.
Something quietly waiting underneath every exchange they had avoided for seven days.
The kettle clicked softly behind him.
Finished.
Xu Chen did not move to pour the tea.
His gaze remained fixed on the screen.
Then, slowly, he typed:
Yes.
The reply came immediately this time.
Aum:Then I will also go.
Xu Chen looked at the message for a long moment.
Outside, the night wind moved softly through the trees beyond the villa.
Inside the kitchen, steam rose quietly into the empty space between two untouched cups.
And for the first time since Aum left the villa, the distance between them no longer felt infinite.