Confluence: Goddess Reborn

My tantrum didn't stop with yelling at Shen Kexian.

No, that was just the opening act.

Over the next few days, I spiraled—full tilt, no brakes, emotionally unstable with a side of petty destruction. I cycled through rage, sorrow, despair, and back to rage again like it was a personal hobby. One minute I was weeping quietly into my pillow while Xiaohua tried to brush my hair without saying anything judgmental, and the next I was threatening to set the new training schedule on fire with a candle stub and sheer willpower.

I refused to eat on the first day, demanded four servings of sweet buns on the second, then cried because the buns "tasted like betrayal." I threw a teacup across the room when someone asked if I was feeling better yet (I wasn't). That brought the teacup death toll to five.

Xiaohua tried to distract me by offering to braid my hair like we used to when things were simple and we still believed in men.

I told her to braid a noose instead.

She did not find that funny.

Then there was the moment I tried to meditate, truly, honestly tried—but all I could do was sit there and think about the way Ming Yu looked when he asked for space. The way his voice cracked. The way he didn't shout. Didn't accuse. Just... hurt.

And it broke me all over again.

I avoided the training hall like it was cursed. I ignored the palace summons. I stared out the window for hours. I reread the same three pages of a poetry scroll so many times I started arguing with the metaphors. (Who even compares heartbreak to falling leaves? Leaves come back. Ming Yu didn't.)

Every time a knock came at the door, I hoped it was him.

It never was.

It was mostly Xiaohua. Occasionally a eunuch with "another revised training scroll." Once, weirdly, a bowl of chicken broth from Shen Kexian, which I very dramatically gave to the garden koi in a stunning act of symbolic rebellion.

I was falling apart. And I was doing it in style. Or, at the very least, with full dramatic commitment.

Because if my heart was going to break, it might as well echo.

It all came to a head on the fourth morning, when I declared I was "renouncing courtly life" and attempted to build a small pillow fort under the tea table.

That's when Yuling intervened.

I heard her before I saw her—soft steps, the gentle swish of silk, and a very deliberate sigh from the doorway. I didn't bother turning around. I was halfway into the pillow fort, halfway crying into a sleeve that still smelled like cold dumplings, and fully committed to my grief gremlin phase.

"Well," she said, "this is depressing."

I groaned. "Go away."

"No." She walked in slowly, the way someone does when they're balancing dignity, authority, and a human child somewhere under their ribs. "You're lucky I made it up the stairs without throwing up. You don't get to chase me out."

"You're supposed to be resting," I mumbled from beneath the pillows.

"You're supposed to be training," she replied, settling onto the cushion beside the table with an effortful sigh. "But here we are. Me, out of breath. You, apparently trying to tunnel into the afterlife via upholstery."

I peeked at her. "You shouldn't be walking this much."

"You shouldn't be throwing porcelain at palace maids, yet here we are."

Fair.

She shifted slightly, adjusting her sleeves around the swell of her belly, then looked me over like she was diagnosing a fever. "You've got five emotions fighting for control of your face and no food in your stomach. You've turned down three meals and converted a gift broth into koi food."

"They looked hungry."

"They're fish."

"I related to them."

She sighed again, this time heavier. "Mei Lin."

I blinked. "Oh no. You're using a serious voice."

"Yes," she said. "Because I'm serious. What's happening with Ming Yu—it hurts. I know that. But this isn't healing. This is an implosion with embroidery."

"I can't just be fine," I said, my voice cracking. "I didn't even get a chance to fix it. One moment we were... trying. And the next, he was just gone. And now I'm stuck here, pretending to be a goddess while I can't even keep the person I—"

I stopped myself. Bit my lip.

Yuling didn't push.

She reached across the space between us and placed her hand over mine. Her fingers were cool, grounding.

"You don't have to be fine," she said gently. "But you do have to be present. This spiral—it's not you. You're not this."

I swallowed hard. "I don't know how to be anything else right now."

She smiled softly. "Then let me help you remember."

And for the first time in days, I didn't flinch when someone touched me.

Because it wasn't training. It wasn't an obligation. It wasn't strategy or expectations.

It was just Yuling.

Steady. Human. Real.

Even with a baby turning her internal organs into origami, she still came for me. And I hated how much I needed that. But gods, did I need it.

I didn't say anything for a long time.

Just sat there, fingers curled around the edge of the pillow, Yuling's hand resting gently over mine. The silence between us wasn't awkward. It wasn't the kind of silence I'd been drowning in lately. It was full, almost comforting—like an exhale I hadn't known I was holding.

"You always do this," I said finally, voice hoarse. "You show up. When I've turned into the worst version of myself."

"That's what family does," she replied. "Even when the worst version of you smells like dumpling-scented misery and has hair like a disoriented broom."

I gave a snort that was half a sob.

She rubbed her belly absently. "Besides, the baby is going to need an aunt who's emotionally stable enough to tell bedtime stories without cursing."

"Then we're doomed," I mumbled into my sleeve.

"Possibly. But we're going to pretend otherwise, because delusion is what keeps this palace functioning."

She nudged my foot with hers, not quite smiling. "You know he didn't leave because he stopped caring."

My throat tightened again.

She kept going, voice low, steady. "He left because he cared too much. And he didn't know how to hold it anymore. That's not a weakness. That's someone trying to protect you from whatever he couldn't name."

I nodded, eyes burning again. "I just wanted to fix it."

"I know."

"But I think I broke it more by trying."

Yuling was quiet for a moment. Then, with that same dry, razor-sharp wisdom I'd always admired, she said, "It's not broken forever. But maybe it needs to be quiet for a while. Let things settle. Let him breathe. Let you breathe."

"I don't want space."

"You also didn't want breakfast for three days and declared war on the concept of teacups."

Fair.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted. "How to show up to training, or walk into the courtyard, or—gods help me—look at Shen Kexian without feeling like I'm betraying someone."

"You're not betraying him," she said. "You're surviving. There's a difference."

I turned my head, rested my chin on my knees. "It doesn't feel different."

"Then fake it," she said simply. "Until it does."

We sat there a while longer. Finally, she stood with a soft grunt, pressing a hand to her lower back. "Alright. Enough wallowing for today. I'll come back tomorrow, and if you're still under that blanket, I'm setting it on fire."

"Tempting," I said, voice quieter. "But maybe... maybe I'll try."

She nodded once. "That's all I ask."

And then she left, trailing the soft scent of jasmine tea and quiet resilience.

I sat there a little longer, staring at the pillow fort.

And for the first time in days, I started to think about climbing out.