She rifles through the unopened letters, sorting them out one by one, leaving both hands occupied and her phone stuck between the side of her head and her shoulder.

“I’ll check, okay?” she says to the person on the other line. “Then I’ll get back to you.”

She hears him snort. “Oh please. You don’t need to check. Your schedule can’t be that hectic. You’re a pianist, not a doctor or a teacher. Even bank managers have time to play golf and drink tequila.”

“Shut up, Yifan and I’m pretty sure bank managers drink wine, not tequila.” She grumbles at him, eyes focused on the mail as she opens them one after another. Electric bill, a couple of advertisements, credit card balance, a wedding invitation from a friend.

“When did you get so smart?” He laughs though she can hear a trace of pride in his tone.

“The question is, when will you?“ she teases him. Yifan tries to make an equally witty comeback, deep voice stuttering over his words and the poor attempt just makes her giggle. “I was kidding, man. Jeez.”

“You know, two years ago after you came here from China, you wouldn’t even talk.” Yifan muses and before Diana could horn in a retort, thinking he’s about to make fun of her or something, he continues. “I’m glad you’re at least comfortable now.”

Diana manages a small smile. “Yeah, I guess.” She tactfully leaves out the part that he’s mostly the one responsible for that.

He clears his throat. “So anyway, Friday night, you game?”

She thinks about it for a second and decides to relent. An oddly endearing person like Yifan is hard to say no to. “Yeah, sure, whatev—“ Diana stops short when she fingers a simple small blue envelope. There’s nothing written on the surface, not the sender’s name or the return address. Her brows furrow as she slowly opens it and takes out the letter.

And.

And air is suddenly knocked out of her.

She knows this handwriting, knows it like the back of her hand. She remembers the distinct little and the unmistakable flair imprinted.

All of a sudden, Yifan’s chattering is just a humming drone in the background; everything else around her shrinks in obscure insignificance and a piece of paper become the center of her entire being, an orbit in which her existence begins to suddenly revolve around.

Two simple sentences tugs and grabs at her wildly beating heart.

I want to see you again.

Please come home.

One name that follows after crushes and re-introduces it to pain.

Luhan.