Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

Yao flinched. She curled tighter, her hands gripping the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering her to the room. Her voice was so soft it nearly vanished. "S-Since the first night I moved in..."

The silence was deafening.

Sicheng didn't move. Didn't release her. His hand remained on her shoulder, grounding her, keeping her tethered not just to the moment—but to him. And as the truth sank in—how long this had been going on, how many nights she had spent suffering in silence, how many times she had curled into herself and said nothing, asked for nothing—it took everything in him not to react. Because the urge to snap, to demand why she hadn't said anything, to growl at her for holding it in—it was strong. But the doctor's voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the noise with sharp clarity.

"She doesn't need judgment. She needs support. She needs reassurance. She needs presence."

And so, for once, Lu Sicheng said nothing. Instead, his hand shifted—less grip, more contact—and his voice dropped into something quieter, steadier, something only she could hear. "Xiǎo Tùzǐ."

Her breath caught.

Her fingers twitched.

But she didn't pull away.

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as something clicked into place. "You haven't been wearing the hoodie."

That was the only thing he said. And she knew.

He saw it immediately—the flicker of guilt in her eyes, the sudden clench of her hands, the way her lower lip trembled. She had stopped wearing it. Slowly. Without reason. Without thought. Because she had been trying to tell them. Not with words. Not with cries. With silence. And no one had heard her.

Sicheng didn't ask permission. He didn't shift to make room. He simply pulled the blankets back and sat beside her, his presence unyielding and quiet, his gaze fixed forward but his attention entirely hers. And when she finally looked up at him—eyes wide, watery, so full of exhaustion and confusion and apology—he didn't smirk. He didn't tease. He didn't say anything at all. He just sat there. Because Tong Yao didn't need distance. She didn't need speeches or promises. She needed presence. And Lu Sicheng, for once, gave her exactly that.

~

As the silence in the room stretched on, settling over them like the soft, suffocating weight of storm-heavy clouds, as Yao remained curled into herself, her shoulders hunched beneath the blankets she pulled tighter and tighter around her frame as if trying to vanish entirely beneath the folds, as Sicheng sat motionless at her side—steady, present, resisting the urge to reach for her again, to say something, to do anything more than be there without pushing—something shifted.

Not in her.

Not yet.

But in them.

Because if she wasn't going to say anything, if she couldn't bring herself to speak or explain or even breathe properly in front of them, then they would say everything for her—not with words, not with questions, not with platitudes—but with action.

And they would start now.

Yue moved first.

There was no announcement, no exaggerated stretch or teasing remark, no dramatic gesture of brotherly affection to lighten the mood as he so often did. He simply stepped forward, climbed onto the foot of the bed with all the casual ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before, stretched his legs out like he was settling in for movie night, and leaned back against the far post as if this was the most natural thing in the world.