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Shenhe wants to tell him that she has no need for such things, but stops herself. For a moment, she becomes what she despises about others, for she holds her tongue, she is no longer straight forward, she now beats around the bush.
Something inside her tells her not to say it. Because that will shatter the careful illusion she has put forth, the way the ice on the lake broke and the reflection was ruined. Something tells her that that smile she cultivated will fall, if only for a moment, and Shenhe does not like having her efforts go to waste.
(After all, Shenhe is tired of being the only one waiting.)
“I look forward to it,” she says; truth, but only by technicality.
That smile she cultivated — it grows on its own.
Perhaps, the crane has already returned home.
Where Shenhe studies her red strings of fate, and realises what it takes to be human.