innocent lotus flower

healing

The quiet of the Lan residence was unlike the peace of the countryside where Wei Ying had spent the last two years. Here, silence wasn't restful—it was dense, filled with unspoken things and careful eyes. The walls of the house were too clean, too white, too sterile—like a hospital, like a place where wounds were either healed or hidden. Wei Ying wasn't sure which he was doing.

He'd been back for a week, and though the Lan family had treated him with warmth and kindness, he often found himself walking softly, as if afraid to disturb the stillness.

It was the first morning he was alone with Lan Wangji.

The elders had gone out, and A-Yuan was playing under the supervision of a caretaker nearby. Wei Ying sat at the low table in the sunroom, a cup of untouched tea growing cold before him. Across from him, Lan Wangji sat as if carved from marble—composed, quiet, and unreadable.

Wei Ying didn't look at him. "I used to think silence meant you hated me," he said softly, eyes trained on the swaying shadows of tree branches outside.

Lan Wangji flinched—barely, but enough for Wei Ying to notice.

"I don't know what it means anymore," Wei Ying continued, fingers curled around his cup. "Because even after you found me and apologized and did everything right... there's still this silence. And I don't know what it's filled with."

A long pause. Then, finally, Lan Wangji spoke, his voice low and almost fragile. "Regret."

Wei Ying looked up, surprised by the honesty.

Lan Wangji's gaze didn't waver. "I regret every word I said the night I made you leave. Every word I didn't say after. Every moment I chose fear over truth."

Wei Ying swallowed. "You thought you loved her."

"She was a lie I told myself," Lan Wangji said, looking down at his clasped hands. "To escape what I couldn't face. Loving you made me vulnerable. It made me reckless. I thought—" he paused, struggling. "I thought if I forced you away, I could control the consequences."

"And instead, you destroyed us both," Wei Ying finished for him. His voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn't take it back.

"Yes," Wangji said.

The admission hung heavy between them. Outside, A-Yuan's laughter floated in from the garden like a balm. Wei Ying's heart tightened.

"He nearly didn't exist," Wei Ying said. "If I hadn't found out I was pregnant when I did, if I had believed what you said about me being nothing—he wouldn't be here."

Lan Wangji's eyes lifted, pained.

"I thought about it," Wei Ying whispered. "Ending the pregnancy. Ending everything. I was alone. I was scared. And I hated you more than I'd ever hated anyone."

Silence again—but not the same kind. This one trembled with emotion.

"I'm sorry," Lan Wangji said. "For all of it. But I'm here now. And I won't leave. I will earn my place beside you and A-Yuan—no matter how long it takes."

Wei Ying stared at him, searching for the cracks, the falsehoods—but there were none. Just raw sincerity.

He didn't forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But a part of him was tired of carrying that weight alone.

"Then start," Wei Ying said. "Not with grand gestures or dramatic promises. Start by being his father. Start by showing me—not telling me—that you've changed."

A soft knock interrupted them. A-Yuan burst into the room a second later, holding a squashed flower in his hand.

"Baba!" he cried, running into Wei Ying's lap. Then he looked at Lan Wangji. "Father, too!"

Lan Wangji's eyes widened. He hadn't told A-Yuan to call him that. Neither had Wei Ying.

Wei Ying gave a half-smile. "Looks like he's already decided."

Lan Wangji reached out and gently accepted the squashed flower. "Thank you," he said quietly.

A-Yuan beamed, then wriggled out of Wei Ying's arms to go find more "pwesents" in the garden.

As the child's laughter faded again into the sunlit distance, Wei Ying and Lan Wangji sat together—not quite side by side, but not as far apart as they once were. The silence remained, but now it held space for something else