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YMW CH 67
by LinnaceDeity
The winter wind howled, carrying flecks of snow as Xie Guilan held Cen Wu tightly against him. His fingers, cold and unyielding, pressed into the thin fabric of Cen Wu’s back with enough force to be felt even through the thick down jacket.
“Mmm…” Cen Wu gasped for air, his tongue numb and aching from the relentless kiss. He pinched Xie Guilan hard in retaliation.
Xie Guilan sucked lightly on his tongue before finally pulling back slightly, breath ragged, the veins along his neck still pulsing. His dark, obsidian eyes burned with an almost deranged intensity, fixed unwaveringly on Cen Wu.
Cen Wu: “…”
This guy is seriously unwell. Who gets this addicted to kissing?
Xie Guilan ducked his head again, licking a slow, deliberate stripe over Cen Wu’s lips. His throat worked as if parched, voice rough when he spoke.
“Gege… do you like me?”
“I don’t—” Cen Wu tried to wrench free, but before he could finish, Xie Guilan sealed their mouths together once more—hot, insistent, a kiss that felt like drowning in something monstrous and all-consuming.
Xie Guilan didn’t even pull away when he murmured against his lips, “Can I be your boyfriend?”
Cen Wu refused.
His mouth was claimed again.
He refused once more.
And was silenced just as swiftly.
Cen Wu: “…”
You’re invincible, bro.
Fine. Just block out anything you don’t want to hear. Might as well kiss me to death while you’re at it.
In the frozen stillness of the night, beside the dimming glow of Christmas lights, Xie Guilan kept Cen Wu hidden within the folds of his long black coat.
Passersby might catch only glimpses—a tall young man hunched over, lips locked fiercely with someone bundled against his chest, his throat bobbing as he swallowed every sound, the tips of his ears flushed red.
Like a wolfhound, beautiful and unrelenting, refusing to let go.
The snow around them seemed to burn.
Cen Wu was forced to tilt his head back, swallowing Xie Guilan’s saliva. Every time he tried to resist by pushing against Xie Guilan’s tongue, the other man only tangled with him more deeply, until Cen Wu’s mouth was so flooded he could barely contain it.
His legs trembled, a shame akin to losing control washing over him. He had no choice but to keep swallowing, his snow-pale cheeks flushing crimson.
Freak.
Can’t even kiss like a normal person.
Only when Xie Guilan had his fill did he finally pull away, licking his own kiss-reddened lips. His long lashes cast shadows as his dark, peach-blossom eyes fixed on Cen Wu’s swollen mouth.
Cen Wu thought he was about to say something profound—but Xie Guilan just kissed him again, voice rough.
“Want more.”
Cen Wu: “…”
He refused to let Xie Guilan kiss him any further. But struggling only made it easier for Xie Guilan to steal another peck, so Cen Wu simply wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Xie Guilan’s chest.
Then Xie Guilan pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Cen Wu: “…”
Unbelievable!
Xie Guilan held him tighter, nuzzling the tip of his ear. Cen Wu was enveloped completely, the snow falling silently around them, the only sound Xie Guilan’s rapid, powerful heartbeat.
After a while, Cen Wu finally seized his chance—when Xie Guilan least expected it, he slammed his forehead hard against his chest. Xie Guilan staggered slightly, and Cen Wu, rubbing his own reddened brow, shoved him away and bolted.
Xie Guilan stood there, arms empty, the winter wind cutting through him like a stray dog abandoned in the snow.
Pathetic.
Cen Wu glanced back, waiting. Xie Guilan’s lips curved, and he strode toward him without hesitation.
The riverbank was quiet in the depths of winter, the water long frozen under a blanket of snow. The lights shimmered across the ice, warm yet lonely.
Cen Wu leaned against the railing. Xie Guilan came up behind him and wrapped him in his coat again.
Cen Wu kicked back at him, elbowed his abs, fought until sweat dampened Xie Guilan’s back—but Xie Guilan’s arm remained locked around his waist. Then he dipped his head, cold lips brushing Cen Wu’s neck.
Cen Wu: “…”
UNBELIEVABLE!!!
Xie Guilan needed hospitalization. This had to be some severe case of touch starvation—like he’d die if he didn’t cling to Cen Wu.
Resigned, Cen Wu went limp. Xie Guilan hugged him? Fine, he lifted his arms. Xie Guilan kissed him? Fine, he endured it with a blank face.
Xie Guilan rested his chin on Cen Wu’s head, gazing at the glittering bridge in the distance.
“Didn’t you want to scream?”
Cen Wu turned.
“Do it now.” Xie Guilan brushed the black strands of hair from Cen Wu’s forehead, thumb grazing his cheek. “No one will see you. They’ll think it’s me.”
Tempted, Cen Wu’s lips parted—but no sound came out.
Xie Guilan didn’t rush him. Instead, he took Cen Wu’s hand, kneading each finger like a cherished doll, something to be touched and kissed endlessly.
Half an hour later, Cen Wu finally managed a shaky, barely audible cry—more like a kitten’s whimper.
His ears burned. So embarrassing. Had it even been loud enough? He nudged Xie Guilan. “L-Let’s go.”
But Xie Guilan didn’t move. “Wait.”
“W-What now?”
Xie Guilan smirked, guiding Cen Wu’s hand to his own abdomen, forcing him to feel the taut muscles beneath his sweater.
Cen Wu’s fingers curled instantly, as if scalded. Then Xie Guilan’s voice, low and teasing:
“Can’t leave yet. People will see.”
Cen Wu: “…………”
Go to hell!
“Y-You—!” Flustered, Cen Wu didn’t know where to look. “C-Can’t you just… make it go down?!”
“Can’t.” Xie Guilan’s laugh was shameless. “It’s been like this for over half an hour.”
Cen Wu’s blood pressure spiked. He glared at the frozen river—if only it weren’t solid, he’d drag Xie Guilan in with him.
“I’ll strangle you,” he hissed.
“You won’t.” Xie Guilan’s eyes curved, his voice deep and unfairly pleasant in the snowy night. “I know you love me.”
Cen Wu’s gaze darted away.
Xie Guilan’s skin was pale, his eyes black as if soaked in ink, sharp and unreadable—only his lips were a striking red. A face carved from indifference and beauty.
He pinched Cen Wu’s cheeks, forcing him to look up.
Half a head taller, Xie Guilan loomed over him. Cen Wu shivered involuntarily, his entire body tensing.
Liar. All that talk about being a loyal dog—Xie Guilan was the controlling one. If they ever got together, he’d be the one leashed.
No way. He refused to be any man’s pet.
But as the snow thinned, moonlight broke through the clouds, pooling in Xie Guilan’s dark eyes.
And Cen Wu saw it—gentleness. His own tiny reflection, cradled in that gaze.
Bathed in silver light, Xie Guilan almost looked like the moon itself.
Staring into those eyes, Cen Wu suddenly remembered: The night his parents died, there had been no moon.
He’d always known they were busy people—brilliant, doing brilliant things.
His father’s films moved audiences to tears. His mother’s dance performances overseas sold out every time.
They told him, When you grow up, you can do anything you love.
Back then, Cen Wu was barely three, clutching a stuffed bunny, blankly sucking his thumb. He didn’t understand much—but it sounded wonderful.
So he wanted them to keep doing what they loved too.
And so, he learned to grow up.
Cen Wu was actually quite timid. He was afraid of the dark, but he still insisted on sleeping alone.
At night, he would burrow under the blankets, hugging his little bear and rabbit plushies, curling into a tiny ball. The covers would cover most of his face, leaving only a pair of large, dark eyes peeking out.
He always felt like monsters were watching him, so he’d tug on his rabbit’s ears and whisper fearfully, “My mommy and daddy will catch you… you can’t eat me.”
His soft little feet were always tucked safely under the blanket—because he’d heard that leaving them out would let the monsters bite them.
When his parents asked, “Wuwu, do you miss us?” he would say, “No, I don’t. I’m fine on my own.”
Every part of him was soft—except his stubborn mouth.
Later, when their family went bankrupt, his grandfather couldn’t bear the shock and passed away within months. His parents borrowed heavily, swallowing their pride to beg for loans while still juggling film projects.
So he refused to burden them even more.
By then, they had moved to a run-down old apartment. His mother worried debt collectors would come knocking, but he just said, “It’s fine.”
In truth, he was terrified.
He clutched his bear tightly at night, flinching every time the wind rattled the creaky door. When the fear became too much, he’d play the automated voicemail his mother had set up—a gentle recording saying, “Mommy’s here.”
And somehow, wrapped in that imaginary embrace, he’d fall asleep, warmth shielding him from the cold, the night peaceful at last.
The night his parents died, they called him.
“We’re done with work. We can come home now. Wuwu, do you miss us?”
Tears had already spilled down his cheeks, but he wiped them away quickly.
Afraid they’d be too tired driving back, he forced his voice steady. “No. Why would I miss you? So annoying.”
On the other end, his parents laughed softly. His mother teased, “Then can I miss you?”
Then, still smiling, she hung up.
He didn’t know those would be their last words to him.
That night, he couldn’t sleep, tossing until exhaustion finally pulled him under—only to be shaken awake not long after by Lu Lian, his father’s apprentice.
His dad had given Lu Lian a spare key, asking him to look after Cen Wu when he could.
Lu Lian’s eyes were red and swollen. “Shifu and Shimu… they were in a car accident.”
Cen Wu didn’t remember how they got to the hospital.
That night had no stars, no moon—just a suffocating darkness pressing down as his world collapsed.
At the hospital, his aunt was already there, along with her husband and their son. She hugged him, sobbing, while his uncle tried to comfort them.
At first, Cen Wu didn’t cry. His throat was dry as he asked, “Can’t they… save them?”
His aunt couldn’t speak through her tears. His uncle just shook his head.
Only then did Cen Wu’s eyes redden, the tears falling suddenly.
Their family had no money left. Everything had gone to debts.
His father had poured everything into his latest film, Hurricane, betting it would be their salvation.
Now, there wasn’t even enough for a proper funeral.
His aunt and uncle paid for it.
The day of the burial was overcast, drizzling rain. His aunt, Cen Rong, knelt before the graves, weeping. Cen Wu stood behind her, holding a black umbrella to shield her.
Cen Rong was much younger than her brother—raised more by him and his wife than their own absent father. To her, they had been like parents.
Now, they were gone.
At thirteen, Cen Wu had lost his grandfather, then his parents, inheriting nothing but crushing debt.
His uncle sold their home, drained their savings—just to keep the collectors at bay.
But it wasn’t enough.
Men splashed chicken blood on their door. Pounded on it at midnight. Harassed his aunt and uncle at work.
The police did nothing.
Some weren’t even real creditors—just vultures smelling weakness, screaming:
“Is the Cen family extinct?! Where’s Cen Shen’s son?!”
Cen Wu’s lips turned bloodless. His aunt made him hide in the bedroom, his cousin assuring him, “It’s okay. We’re here.”
But through the crack in the door, he saw his aunt slapped, his uncle beaten until his scalp bled.
His thin fingers trembled.
He was scared.
And so, so guilty.
Until one night, he opened a book.
Inside, six-year-old Xie Guilan had written two words over and over:
Brave. Brave.
That same night, when Chen Weiguo drunkenly beat Song Lingwei, the little boy picked up a bottle—
And smashed it over the monster’s head.
Song Lingwei clung to him, sobbing. In her darkest moments, he was her only hope.
She waited for him to grow up and save her.
And he always did.
Cen Wu picked up the pen and wrote two words in his notebook:
Brave. Brave.
Then he stood up, ignoring his cousin’s attempts to stop him, his slender yet resolute figure cutting through the tension in the room.
He placed a hand on his aunt’s shoulder and stepped forward to face the men at the door.
“I’m Cen Shen’s son.”
The men who had come tonight had never lent his family a single cent—they were just vultures, circling the carcass of the fallen Cen family, hoping to squeeze out a few hundred bucks from his aunt and uncle’s desperation to avoid trouble.
They stared at Cen Wu, their eyes lingering on his delicate, snow-pale frame. A few of them nearly laughed.
They thought he was here to hand over money.
Instead, Cen Wu lifted his chin, his beautiful eyes icy.
“I don’t have money.”
“Get out.”
The men froze, stunned that this fragile-looking boy dared to defy them. Then, fury twisted their faces. One lunged forward—only to jerk back when he saw the kitchen knife in Cen Wu’s hand.
Cen Wu didn’t know how to fight. He just swung blindly, recklessly.
These men weren’t willing to bleed for a few hundred yuan.
Seeing that Cen Wu would rather die than pay, they lost interest, cursing as they left—and never came back.
When Xie Guilan was seven, he killed a monster in the rain. After that night, he never again wrote those childish words in his notebook.
But Cen Wu kept that notebook.
He stopped running.
He accepted that his parents were gone.
He accepted the debts they left behind.
He still had family in this world.
And he would keep moving forward.
His aunt was a nurse. His uncle, a gentle and scholarly high school teacher, had once adored his wife and treated Cen Wu kindly. His cousin, too, had looked out for him.
But time wore them down.
The endless debt collectors. The whispers at his uncle’s school. The classmates who taunted his cousin: “Didn’t your family ruin someone’s life? Didn’t someone jump because of you?”
The company’s collapse had destroyed more than just the Cens. One shareholder, convinced Cen Shen could turn things around, had poured his savings into the failing business—only to lose everything when Cen Shen died. In despair, he climbed to the rooftop of Cen Wu’s grandfather’s jewelry company, ready to jump.
(He was saved, but the damage was done.)
The scandal was relentless.
Rumors spread like wildfire:
His parents faked their deaths to escape debt.
His grandfather had blood on his hands from his early days in Hong Kong’s underworld—this was karma.
His uncle grew colder. His cousin avoided him.
Cen Wu was often sick.
One night, burning with fever, his lips moved weakly. His aunt leaned in, only to hear him whisper:
“Mom…”
“Mom, I want lychees.”
Three days before his parents died, his father had passed by their home. Cen Wu was at school.
Too busy to visit, but knowing his son loved lychees, Cen Shen skipped dinner to save money—just to buy him a bag.
“When you finish these,” he texted, “Dad and Mom will be home.”
Cen Wu couldn’t bear to eat them. He saved every one, waiting for his parents to return.
Then the accident happened.
By the time the funeral ended, the lychees had rotted.
And so began the long, damp decay of his life.
“Auntie will buy you some.”
His aunt wiped her tears and left at 3 a.m., trudging through the snow to find lychees in the dead of winter. Her hands were red with cold when she returned, peeling one to feed him.
Cen Wu, still delirious with fever, tasted salt—his own tears—mingling with the sweetness.
Her hands were soft. Gentle.
Like his mother’s.
His uncle woke to the sound of her return and lashed out: “Do you even know how much money we have left? Wasting it on this—”
Cen Wu heard them arguing.
His uncle, once romantic, the high school sweetheart who still looked at his aunt like she was his first love, now resented her.
One winter evening, passing a flower stall, his aunt’s gaze lingered on the roses—a luxury they could no longer afford. She squeezed Cen Wu’s arm and asked what he wanted for dinner instead.
The next day, Cen Wu earned ten yuan by doing homework for a classmate.
He bought her a single rose.
Her joy under the snowy streetlights made her look like a girl again—back when she lived with her brother and sister-in-law, back when coming home meant seeing them.
Why did goodbyes have to exist?
But when his uncle saw the rose, he yelled again. The man who had once been so kind now looked almost monstrous in his anger.
Cen Wu didn’t blame his uncle for growing cold.
He was a burden.
His cousin’s grades had plummeted under the weight of shame, while Cen Wu remained unchanged—still the boy his aunt doted on.
He could feel the hatred radiating from his cousin:
You ruined my life.
You stole my parents.
You destroyed everything.
On his birthday, his aunt bought him a cake.
His uncle screamed about the cost.
That night, Cen Wu made his decision.
He would move out.
He would live at school.
And he would stop being the weight that dragged them all down.
This was never his home to begin with. He shouldn’t have stayed so long. Everyone around him had become unhappier because of him.
He could keep doing homework for classmates, handing out flyers on the streets—he’d find a way to make money.
But his aunt refused to let him leave, even losing her temper with him for the first time in years.
By then, Cen Wu was fifteen. His features had sharpened slightly—eyes like cold mist, skin pale as frost, giving him an aloof, almost heartless air. He frowned at her.
“I’ve had enough. Do you really think I want to stay here? I have my own parents. Why would I live with you?”
His aunt froze, her eyes reddening. She didn’t stop him again.
So Cen Wu moved out.
But the debt collectors never let up. His aunt worked night shifts at the hospital, and he worried she’d be ambushed on her way home.
Every night, he waited for her to finish work, then followed her in secret until she was safely inside before returning to his dorm.
When he was sixteen, Lu Lian approached him to make a film, bringing along a few veterans from his father’s old crew. After leaving his father’s team, these once-elite filmmakers had struggled due to industry conflicts.
Lu Lian wasn’t much of a leader, and he was still young. So Cen Wu took charge of the entire production, directing 《Butterfly》.
The cast were mostly film students, with a few talented extras mixed in.
They filmed in freezing snowstorms. When the lead actress fell ill at night, he carried her to the hospital.
The budget was tight—Cen Wu skimped on everything for himself but made sure the cast and crew ate well.
Everyone knew their director was young, stern, and ruthless when scolding mistakes. Yet no one wanted to leave. Despite his youth and slight frame, Cen Wu became their pillar.
If there’s a problem, just find Director Cen.
Their tiny, ragtag crew was bullied at the studio, denied funding, even thrown out of offices.
But when Cen Wu’s expression turned icy, no one dared to despair. They knew he’d find a way.
(Even if he was terrified inside. His first interview left him shaking. But his face betrayed nothing. On the first page of his script, he’d written two words: Brave. Brave.)
Lu Lian was hopeless. Many said he’d never be a director, but Cen Wu’s father had patiently mentored him anyway. Even now, after all this time, he hadn’t improved.
One night, after everyone else had left, Lu Lian sat on set and cried.
Cen Wu, editing footage late into the night, found him. Pale from exhaustion, a coat draped over his shoulders, he said coldly:
“Get up. Stop crying.”
Lu Lian wiped his eyes—then kept crying.
“Then get out,” Cen Wu snapped. “Useless. Why are you even here?”
Lu Lian’s face flushed with shame. But he stood, gritted his teeth, and vowed to prove himself. Still sobbing, he followed Cen Wu to learn editing.
With his striking, cold beauty and unshakable calm, Cen Wu seemed ageless. It was easy to forget he was seven years younger than Lu Lian.
(Only years later, long after Cen Wu was gone, would Lu Lian realize: He was trying to help me. Understanding Cen Wu meant ignoring his words—sometimes even his actions. If he loved you, you’d feel it.)
After 《Butterfly’s》 release, Cen Wu began repaying debts piece by piece. Many of his parents’ old friends refused to see him, assuming he’d come to borrow more money.
On a freezing winter day, one shoved him out the door. Only after persistent knocking did they finally let him in.
Shivering, Cen Wu thought: I’ll never owe anyone again.
When 《Butterfly 》became a hit, the media clamored for interviews. His famous parents, the scandal of the Cen family’s fall—reporters couldn’t resist digging.
At one film festival, a journalist thrust a microphone in his face:
“Director Cen, your parents left massive debts. Was there no inheritance? Rumor says your mother had compensation funds—why weren’t those used to repay creditors? Many who helped your family were driven to ruin—”
Cen Wu lifted his head. His pale skin made the faint pink of his lips seem colder. He smiled.
“Why don’t you die and find out? Need help?”
The backlash was instant. The media vilified him. The more successful his films, the worse his reputation. Yet his fans grew more fervent, drawn to the storm around him.
His father’s closest friend had lent them millions, even looking after Cen Wu after his parents’ deaths. Then, years ago, he’d vanished.
Cen Wu assumed he, too, had cut ties to avoid the burden.
Once he had the money, he tracked down the man’s contact info and messaged: I want to repay you.
No response.
He tried again: Uncle Zhang, I’m not here to borrow. Just repay. Can you give me your address?
Still nothing.
Finally, Cen Wu found the address himself. That night, the man’s daughter opened the door—and her face hardened at the sight of him.
“…Hello,” Cen Wu said stiffly, tense despite having done this countless times. “I’m looking for Uncle Zhang.”
Her eyes reddened with something like hatred.
“My father is dead.”
Cen Wu froze.
The man had lent Cen Wu’s parents millions in their time of crisis. But after their deaths, his own company suddenly collapsed. The unpaid debt broke his financial chain, pushing him to the brink of bankruptcy overnight.
He struggled for a year, waiting for a turnaround that never came—only to be diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Refusing to drain his family’s remaining savings on treatment, he sold everything and left the money to his wife and daughter.
His daughter’s eyes were red as she glared at Cen Wu—then suddenly slapped him across the face.
“Nannan!” Her mother gasped, pulling her back.
Cen Wu’s throat tightened. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even attended the man’s funeral.
“I’m sorry,“ he murmured, placing a bank card on the side table before turning to leave.
The streetlights were dim when he reached the sidewalk. But the girl came running after him, throwing her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I just… I really miss my dad.”
Cen Wu held her, patting her head gently, his chest aching. He walked her back upstairs before finally leaving.
The people around him kept disappearing.
As he walked home alone, he looked up—and saw the moon.
It reminded him of a line from a book, where Ji Changyu once asked Xie Guilan:
“Why haven’t you given up, even when it’s this hard?”
That night, Xie Guilan had also looked at the moon and replied, “I’ll just keep moving forward.”
So Cen Wu kept walking too. The moon moved; he followed.
The earnings from 《Butterfly》—a love story that took time to find its audience—only covered half his debts. He needed more.
So he poured the rest into 《Hurricane》, his father’s unfinished film.
Year after year, he chipped away at what was owed.
By twenty-one, he’d cleared every last debt—and directed another film of his own, winning Best Director at Berlin.
Onstage, under the spotlight, his eyes were as cool and distant as ever, but a faint mist blurred his vision.
He thanked his cast and crew, then glanced into the audience—where, for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a couple smiling at him from the shadows, waving, their faces unchanged by time.
He’d grown up. They hadn’t.
His throat closed. I miss you. I wish I could see you one more time.
But he couldn’t say it.
If he did, he’d collapse.
He blinked back the tears, finished his speech, and stepped down.
He rarely spoke to his aunt these days, though he sent her money every month. At first, she refused—so he insisted it was repayment for all she’d spent on him.
She seldom reached out, except to wish him happy birthday or send cheery, middle-aged emojis when his films released.
But after Berlin, there was no message.
When his transfer went unclaimed, he flew home immediately—only to find wreaths at her door.
“She passed a few nights ago,” his uncle said, aged a decade in days. “Sudden. No pain.”
Cen Wu stood frozen before her portrait for a long time.
At the funeral, his cousin pulled him aside.
“You’re responsible for this,” he said, hollow-eyed. “She worked herself to death for you.”
And then Cen Wu learned the truth:
His aunt had known he followed her home at night. So she followed him too, terrified the debt collectors would find him alone. Once, she’d even confronted them—”He’s just a child. Take my money instead.”
They shoved her down, spraining her ankle. She wiped her tears, limped home, and never told him.
She’d watched all his films in secret, sleepless with worry. Before Berlin, she’d drafted a long message:
【Auntie knows how hard you’ve worked. You’ll win, I’m sure. Come home if you’re tired. I’m divorcing him—not because of you. He’s just not the man I married anymore.】
After Cen Wu left, her marriage never recovered. But she stayed—until she saw 《Butterfly》.
The film was a twisted love story: a girl falls for her foster brother, a reckless charmer. After years of entanglement, she finally walks away.
The ending shows her running through snow, past their old high school—where she glimpses the boy he used to be, grinning, calling her “little sister,” telling her it’s time to go home.
She used to run to him, cling to him, ride his bike back.
This time, she doesn’t stop.
She loved him once. He loved her too.
But she keeps running.
Because some goodbyes are long overdue.
The film ended with the female lead choosing the second male lead.
【Auntie has to move forward too. Thank you for giving me the courage to end this. I love you so much, and I miss you. Come home—I’ll be waiting for you.】
But she was already gone.
Cen Wu lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed.
His cousin had shown him this message out of spite, wanting to hurt him. But when he saw the tears in Cen Wu’s eyes, he, too, began to cry.
It was hard to say whose fault it was. Maybe no one’s. Maybe it was just fate—a butterfly flapping its wings, setting off a storm that never stopped.
Cen Wu forwarded the message to his own phone, then bought a bouquet of red roses. He drove to the cemetery, placed them at his aunt’s grave, and stood there for a long, long time.
Eventually, his legs gave out, and he crouched down, leaning against the cold stone to keep her company.
Only when the pain became unbearable did he finally stand and leave.
Tonight, the moon was still there.
He remembered the ending of that novel—Xie Guilan in a black coat, walking forward under the moonlight, never stopping.
But this time, Cen Wu’s footsteps slowed to a halt.
Xie Guilan was brave, unyielding, the kind of moon he could only look up to.
But Cen Wu?
He was afraid of ghosts, of the dark, of pain, of people leaving him.
There wasn’t much he wasn’t afraid of.
That night, he fell asleep as soon as he got home.
And dreamed.
He was three or four years old, waiting for his parents to finish filming so they could take him home.
They held his hands, sometimes lifting him into the air, letting his little feet dangle.
But then, suddenly, they were gone.
Clutching his teddy bear, he ran to find his mother.
She turned at the sound of his voice, crouching down with open arms, her smile soft under the night sky.
“Mommy’s here.”
He rushed toward her, reaching out—
And everything vanished.
Only the moon remained, swaying faintly in the dark.
He wasn’t on set anymore. He stood by a river, where his grandfather waited on the opposite bank, face lined with wrinkles.
Grandpa, you’ve gotten old again, he wanted to say.
Then he saw his parents, and that uncle, and his aunt running toward him, waving.
He waved back.
He had never gotten to say goodbye—always holding back, never saying what he meant.
Now, through tears, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
And ran toward them.
I miss you. I just wanted to see you one more time. Why…?
The ringing phone jerked him awake.
Lu Lian’s voice crackled through the receiver: “Director Cen, did I wake you? About the film—”
Cen Wu’s lips moved, but his voice came out broken. “I… I… can’t…”
Lu Lian hesitated. “Director Cen? Are you okay?”
Something inside Cen Wu shattered.
The pain he’d suppressed for years surged like a tidal wave, tearing through his throat, leaving him unable to speak.
He stayed in bed for three days.
No improvement.
He didn’t want to see anyone.
Slowly, he began to fear people altogether.
He reopened that novel—the one he’d read countless times, its pages now loose—and practiced speaking like Xie Guilan, whose lines were always short and sharp.
The night before transmigrating, he’d been reading it.
Then he opened his eyes—
And saw Xie Guilan in the club.
Now, slightly drunk, Cen Wu stared at him in a daze.
Xie Guilan reached out, ruffling his hair.
But Cen Wu suddenly pulled him into a tight embrace.
“What’s wrong?” Xie Guilan murmured, holding him.
Cen Wu shook his head.
Eight years. Over two thousand days.
From age thirteen until his death, he had carried this loneliness, this fear, with no one to tell.
And in those moments, he had always thought of Xie Guilan.
Before transmigrating, his feelings hadn’t been romantic.
But he had loved him—like a distant deity, a moon he would never reach, lighting his path and giving him the courage to stand up again and again.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he clung to Xie Guilan.
He wanted to wrap his arms around him properly, but Xie Guilan was too tall. So he settled for this—holding him, patting his head like an unripe watermelon.
Xie Guilan had walked beside him in spirit a thousand times.
Now, at last, they had reached the end of the road together.
“Xie Guilan,” Cen Wu said, smiling through the tears in his voice.
“Let’s go home.”