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Jinhsi was definitely not keeping track.
Absolutely not.
No.
That would be way too ridiculous.
Unthinkable.
She was not counting the gifts, the offerings, the little tokens that Changli left in her wake like whispers of devotion.
She was not keeping a mental catalog of every single one, tucked them away in the quietest corners of her memory, replaying them over and over like poetry.
She wasn’t.
But she could still name them all.
The hairpin—delicate, carved from pale jade, its edges kissed by gold. Left on her desk one morning without a word, as if it had always belonged there. She had worn it that very day, hands trembling as she pinned it into place, knowing Changli would notice, knowing she would say nothing, but knowing all the same.
The silk bookmark—embroidered with intricate plum blossoms, the stitching so fine that Jinhsi had traced it with her fingers for far too long to pretend that—pretending she was only admiring the craftsmanship. Given to her with an offhanded comment"I thought it suited you." It lived in her favorite book now, and of course, would never be anywhere else.
The sweets, of course—always her favorites, always placed before her with that maddening, quiet certainty, as if Changli had reached into her soul, plucked out every craving, and simply answered them.
And then there were the flowers.
Always fresh.
Always handpicked.
Always left with such quiet care that it made Jinhsi's chest ache.
She should have been used to it by now.
Should have accepted that this was just how Changli was—graceful, thoughtful, relentless in ways that unraveled her.
But every time—every single time—it left her ruined.
Jinhsi exhaled slowly, staring at the latest addition to the ever-growing collection of Changli’s affections.
A comb.
Dark wood, polished smooth, its teeth carved with the utmost care.
Simple,
But,
Elegant.
Beautiful.
Too much.
She let her fingers hover over it, hesitant, as if touching it would seal some invisible promise.
She should not be reacting like this.
“It suits you,” came Changli’s voice, smooth as ever,
Unbothered,
Effortless.
As if she wasn’t undoing Jinhsi with every syllable.
Jinhsi swallowed, willing herself to breathe. For a moment, she forced herself to lift the comb, to study it with something resembling detachment.
A façade.
A fragile one.
“You’ve been bringing me a lot of things lately, teacher,” she murmured, keeping her voice light.
Careful.
“I’m starting to think you’re trying to bribe me.”
A soft hum. “Bribe you for what, exactly?”
Jinhsi opened her mouth.
Slightly,
For a brieft moment before,
Closed it.
The air between them was thick, too thick, layered with meaning neither of them would dare to speak aloud.
Because what could she say? That every gift was sinking into her ribs like a whispered confession? That every small, thoughtful thing made her weak with the weight of it?
That every time she looked at these gifts, she thought—not of silk, or jade, or flowers—but of Changli herself?
She did not say any of this.
Instead, she cleared her throat, forcing out a quiet response, “You don’t have to keep bringing me things, teacher.”
Changli tilted her head slightly, the barest hint of amusement in her amber eyes. “Don’t I?”
Jinhsi’s breath hitched.
And then, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, Changli reached forward, gentle fingers brushing against Jinhsi’s wrist—light, barely there, but enough.
“You accept them, Hsi.” she murmured.
Soft.
Certain.
Jinhsi hated how easily she melted.
“…Of course I do,” she whispered, because how—how could she not?
Changli smiled, satisfied, before withdrawing her hand.
And Jinhsi, hopeless, helpless, ruined, realized with something so close to despair,
That,
She would keep accepting them.
Forever.
Because every gift, every quiet offering, every I thought of you was killing her.
And she never wanted it to stop.