Unfinished Morning Light

Some loves begin too late and end too quickly. That night, he memorized every inch of her, and she gave him one last chance to touch her. Before the lights were on, he held his breath—as if waiting for someone to bite him awake.

Nighttime is when emotions are most likely to break down.

He kissed her shoulder, all the way down to her collarbone and palm, as if remembering every inch of her skin. Her fingertips tightened, her nails drawing a thin line on his back, a sharp pain that felt like an unforgettable memory etched into her skin.

He gripped her wrist, pressed her back onto the bed, and lowered his head to place a very light kiss on her palm, as if sealing something about to be lost. Her lips trembled slightly, and words yet to form floated into her eyes. He wouldn't let those words fall, leaning down to shatter all her thoughts with a deep, almost predatory kiss.

His kiss stopped along her collarbone, his teeth lightly biting her skin. She gasped, her body arching instinctively.

He asked in his ear, "Does it hurt?"

She met his gaze, her tone almost defiant: "What do you think?"

He didn't reply, but leaned down, took her index finger tip into his mouth and slowly released it, his tongue brushing over it, like a silent warning and coaxing.

His eyes brightened slightly, and his voice was low and husky: "The more I should let you go, the more I want to bite you into my bones."

She bit her lower lip, almost drawing blood, which earned her an even deeper and longer embrace. He rolled her over, his palm resting on her waist, and pressed his body against hers, whispering in her ear, "If you don't say no, I'll take that as you still don't want to leave."

She didn't answer, but instead reached her hand behind her, hooking her fingertips around the back of his neck—like tacit consent, or perhaps a final act of willfulness.

He first kissed her ear, his teeth lightly nibbling at the edge, and she trembled violently. He kissed her again, his movements almost frantic, like a rebellion against fate. The easel in the corner wobbled, the metal pen holder tipped over, and a few pencils fell to the ground with a soft thud. Her hair clung to her shoulders with sweat, his breathing grew more rapid, and his arms tightened around her, as if he wanted to meld her into his very bones. His knuckles clenched so tightly that they turned white, the force almost suffocating her, yet she still held on to him tightly, refusing to let go.

The sheets were disheveled, pencils lay scattered at the foot of the bed, and the air was thick with the heat of sweat and breath. They were pushed to their limits time and again, until their bodies and minds lost their boundaries, and they could only hold each other tightly in heavy breathing. Neither dared to fall asleep first, as if closing their eyes would cause the other to be pulled away from the world.

One night, she pressed her ear against his chest and asked, "If we hadn't met, would it be less painful?"

He pulled her into his arms, forehead to forehead, his voice barely audible: "But we met... and we couldn't keep up the act anymore."

They don't talk about the future; they can only hold on to the present even more tightly.

The morning light finally peeked in through the cracks in the window.

The balcony railing in the bedroom was still damp with dew. Hu Li set up the easel, tied up her hair, and casually secured it with a pencil. Her movements were as natural as ever, yet they carried a resolute air.

The brush tip moved across the canvas, without outlining or underlining, simply following the memory—the dawn, the blurry horizon in the distance, and his quiet silhouette as he slept last night.

She knew all too well that if she didn't draw it now, she wouldn't remember it. She had actually woken up at the crack of dawn, but didn't get up immediately, only quietly gazing at Mu Tianlang's sleeping profile. His eyelashes trembled in the dim light, his breathing was steady, and his palm rested gently on her waist. At that moment, he was like a young boy—clean, calm, and unguarded; while she felt as if she had been awake for an entire lifetime.

She didn't wake him, but simply preserved that moment of silence, put on her bathrobe, and pushed open the glass door leading to the balcony.

She couldn't remember the last time she had painted so quietly—or rather, she had never been so afraid of time passing too quickly. She held a pencil, but her knuckles felt like they were holding a knife. It was supposed to be a drawing, but she was carving, stroke by stroke, a person she might never see again.

Her shoulders trembled slightly. The rolled-up hem of her dress was unconsciously lowered again, as if unable to hide the pain from someone.

When Mu Tianlang woke up, the body beside him had lost its warmth. He propped himself up, his disheveled hair falling over his forehead. The figure on the balcony had his back to him, his temples disheveled, his shoulders soft, like a figure in a painting embraced by the morning light.

His throat tightened, and his chest felt heavy. A sense of loss welled up inside him. He suddenly realized that his real fear wasn't her leaving, but the fact that one day he would no longer be able to see her standing in front of the easel on mornings like these.

He got out of bed barefoot, his steps as light as if afraid of disturbing her dreams. He walked behind her, embraced her from behind, buried his face in the crook of her neck, and planted a kiss on her neck.

"Why didn't you sleep a little longer?" he asked in a low, hoarse voice.

Hu Li didn't turn around, his pen never stopping: "I'm afraid I'll forget the light of this morning."

He paused for a moment, then hugged her tighter: "Then draw it. I want to... keep it, to keep you."

Her pen paused, and she smiled softly: "We can't hold onto the sun, nor can we hold onto time. But this painting will remember—we once had each other."

He said nothing more, only resting his chin on her shoulder, letting the sunlight filter through their shadows onto the canvas. The sound of waves continued at the window, sunlight slowly climbed the coconut leaves and railings, and the distant sky turned a pale blue. He whispered, "I hope this scene will never be completed."

She asked, "Why?"

"Because once it's finished, it's over."

She didn't reply, but instead kept that unfinished painting of dawn deep in her heart, like a silent seal marking this lingering love. On the canvas, their intertwined shadows were still wet.

A vibration sounded, the phone lit up, and a cold, white light swept across her bare shoulder. He didn't move, and she didn't turn around. But time never stops.

They all knew that no amount of morning light could ward off the approaching darkness.

During the day, they no longer concealed themselves and went out side by side, just like any ordinary couple.

Hu Li wore a loose white dress, her hair was casually tied into a low ponytail with a few strands hanging down by her temples.

Mu Tianlang looked at her and suddenly said, "This is good."

"Which one is better?" she asked, pouting.

He tilted his head and thought for a few seconds, then whispered, "We really can go on like this forever."

They bought breakfast and sat on the sea breakwater eating soy milk and fried dough sticks. The wind ruffled the hem of her skirt, and he held it down for her, then gently stroked her hair, his movements as light as a dream.

In the afternoon, they walked slowly along the coast. She held his hand, her toes kicking at the pebbles, sunlight scattering across her forehead. She turned to look at him and suddenly said, "I've dreamed of this road."

He raised an eyebrow: "Me in your dreams?"

She nodded, her voice so soft it was as if she didn't want to disturb her: "If you walk ahead, I can't catch up no matter how hard I try."

He slowed his pace and tightened his grip on her hand: "And now?"

"Now that you're here, I'm not afraid."

He stared at her, his eyes seeming to sweep across her like a sea breeze: "It's not just me beside you, it's us together."

She tilted her head and smiled: "How come you suddenly know how to talk?"

He whispered, "Because I want to keep you here. Saying a few more words is like staying a few more seconds."

She didn't answer, but reached out to smooth the hair from his forehead, her fingertips trembling slightly, hiding her words. He looked down at her, silent for a long time, as if memorizing her words. Then he raised his hand, his palm touching her cheek, his fingertips sliding down her ear and neck, finally stopping at her collarbone: "I'm afraid if I don't speak, you'll forget me."

She shook her head: "It would be terrible if you forgot me."

After saying that, she tiptoed and kissed him briefly and quickly, like pressing down a mark to signal that she didn't want to say goodbye. He was stunned for a few seconds, then took her hand in return, their fingers intertwined, and whispered, "Then let's walk slowly, turning every step into a memory."

"I'm afraid that one day you'll forget this breeze, and the hand I held when I held yours." His tone was as light as the wind, yet it carried a hint of unease.

She looked up at him, said nothing, but raised his hand and placed it on her cheek, as if to comfort him, or as if to save a record for herself.

They deliberately stretched out time, as if afraid that if they turned around, they would miss every smile of hers.

As the sun began to set, she leaned on his shoulder and whispered, "Today felt so long, like many years have passed in a day."

He looked down at her, said nothing, and simply kissed the corner of her forehead, as if in response, or perhaps as a farewell already agreed upon. Neither of them mentioned tomorrow.

That night, he kissed her again, like a silent confirmation, or like an extended game in despair.

She finally asked, "Are we running out of time?"

He lowered his head, and a fleeting vulnerability in his eyes stunned her. He didn't answer, but simply pulled her into his arms, very tightly, as if he wanted to press her into the deepest part of his heart—as if if he didn't hold her tight now, fate would take her away.

Her voice trembled slightly, almost inaudibly: "If there's not enough time, could tonight... be considered our last dream?"

He nodded, his forehead touching her brow, his Adam's apple bobbing, his voice sounding like it was about to break: "Then let's not wake up, okay? If we wake up... I'm afraid I won't be able to hold on."

Just then, my phone vibrated, breaking the silence of the night. A flash of cold white light appeared on the bedside table.

She didn't turn her head, and he didn't reach out. But the words on the screen were still glaring:

Please cooperate fully with the overall arrangements; there can be no further changes.

Mu Tianlang closed his eyes briefly, his eyelashes trembling. In that instant, all the suppressed emotions ignited. He almost wanted to resist, to keep her—even if it was just for one more night, one more morning.

My throat tightened, and my fingertips trembled.

Why? He wanted to keep her so badly, but in the end, he could only push her away with his own hands.