The silence stretched long after the door closed, pressing against Xiao Zhan’s ribs until breathing itself felt like an effort. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened. The echo of Yibo’s voice—“Take care, ge”—reverberated again and again, cruel in its simplicity, devastating in its restraint.

He wanted to laugh at himself. Such ordinary words. So common, so small. And yet they left him gutted. Because he had been waiting for something else—anything else. A slip, a hint, a confession, a plea. Instead, Yibo had left him with politeness, as though they were nothing more than colleagues politely parting ways.

Xiao Zhan pressed his palms to his face, forcing back the sting in his eyes. He couldn’t afford to cry. Not now. Not when the makeup artists, the fans, the colleagues all expected him to walk out tomorrow morning with the same calm, flawless smile he always carried.

But here, alone, the mask cracked.

He lay back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, and memories began flooding him—uninvited, unstoppable.

The first rehearsal, months ago. Yibo had been late, striding in with that lazy confidence that infuriated some and charmed others. Xiao Zhan had teased him about it, and Yibo had rolled his eyes, muttering, “Ge, don’t act like you’ve never been late before.” Their laughter had caught the attention of the room, quick and sharp, setting a tone no one could quite name but everyone noticed.

The long nights when scenes stretched into the early hours. Yibo sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bottle of sports drink, tossing stray comments about camera angles and lines while Xiao Zhan tried not to notice the way his profile glowed under the harsh set lights.

The stolen glances between takes. The wordless understanding in crowded rooms. The times their fingers brushed when they both reached for the same prop, and neither pulled away quickly enough.

So many moments. So many almosts.

And now, nothing.

Xiao Zhan sat up abruptly, restless. He crossed to the window, pulling aside the curtains. The city sprawled beneath him, alive with lights and noise, but it all felt distant, untouchable. Somewhere above, the rooftop party still blared on, laughter carrying faintly through the night.

Was Yibo still up there? Pretending nothing had happened, smiling at jokes, hiding whatever he had left unsaid behind his usual cool exterior? The thought made Xiao Zhan’s stomach twist.

He turned away from the window, pacing the length of the room. He had always prided himself on control—of his career, his emotions, his image. But Yibo… Yibo had always been the exception. Around him, Xiao Zhan found himself teetering on the edge, walking a line he couldn’t quite define.

He remembered once, during a break in filming, Yibo had sprawled across his couch, scrolling idly on his phone. Out of nowhere, he had said, “It’s easier being around you, ge. I don’t have to try so hard.”

At the time, Xiao Zhan had laughed it off, tossing a pillow at him. But those words had stayed, etched into the quiet corners of his heart.

And now, tonight, Yibo had come all the way down to his room—only to walk away with nothing more than a take care.

It felt like a cruel joke.

Xiao Zhan stopped pacing, pressing a hand against his chest as if he could physically hold the ache in place. His lips parted, whispering into the empty room, “Why didn’t you just say it…?”

But the silence offered no answer.

The night dragged on, sleepless. Xiao Zhan lay in bed but didn’t close his eyes. His thoughts spun endlessly, replaying every look, every pause, every almost-confession. He wondered if Yibo’s words had burned on his tongue too, if he had walked away because saying them would have made leaving impossible.

At some point, the sky outside the window softened from black to gray. The rooftop had gone quiet hours ago; the city was waking again.

Xiao Zhan rose, showered, and began finishing the packing he had left undone. Each fold of fabric into his suitcase felt like erasing a memory. Shirts he had worn on lazy nights when Yibo had raided his snack stash. Jackets that had hung on the same chair Yibo always claimed. Even the toothbrush by the sink looked suddenly out of place, as though it belonged to someone who no longer existed.

A knock at the door startled him. He froze, heart pounding, but this time it was louder, more businesslike.

“Room service,” a voice called.

He exhaled, relief and disappointment mingling bitterly. “Just leave it outside,” he replied.

When he opened the door minutes later, a tray sat waiting—coffee, toast, fruit. He carried it inside, but the food tasted like nothing.

Halfway through the coffee, his phone buzzed.

It was a message from one of the assistant directors: Car will be ready at 9. Don’t be late.

Xiao Zhan glanced at the time. 8:07.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the reality sink in. In less than an hour, he would be gone.

Would Yibo come to see him off? Or would last night’s goodbye be the final one?

The thought hollowed him.

At 8:45, his suitcase stood by the door, everything packed, nothing left behind. He sat on the edge of the bed again, waiting, though he told himself he wasn’t. Every sound in the hallway made him look up, hope sparking before extinguishing again.

Finally, his phone buzzed once more: Car is here.

Xiao Zhan swallowed hard. He stood, pulling the suitcase handle upright. His hand hesitated on the door handle, knuckles trembling. He told himself not to be foolish, not to expect anything more.

But some fragile part of him still wished.

He opened the door.

And there—leaning against the opposite wall, cap pulled low, mask hiding half his face—stood Wang Yibo.

Xiao Zhan’s breath caught.

“You’re leaving,” Yibo said, voice low but steady.

“Yes,” Xiao Zhan replied. His grip on the suitcase tightened. “The car’s waiting.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between them.

Then Yibo pushed off the wall, crossing the space with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped just short of touching distance, close enough that Xiao Zhan could see the faint exhaustion in his eyes above the mask.

“I didn’t…” Yibo began, then paused, searching for words. His hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach out but couldn’t. “Last night… I didn’t say everything.”

Xiao Zhan’s heart lurched painfully. “Yibo—”

But before he could finish, Yibo shook his head sharply, as though cutting himself off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Xiao Zhan’s voice cracked despite himself. He hadn’t meant to let it show, but the strain was too much. “It matters.”

For a second, Yibo’s eyes softened, almost breaking. But then he pulled the mask tighter, the cap lower. Walls rebuilding.

“Take care, ge,” he repeated. The exact same words. Final, polite, unbearable.

Xiao Zhan’s chest caved. He wanted to scream, to demand, to beg. But his throat locked around the words, leaving him mute.

So he nodded, forcing a small smile that tasted like ash. “You too.”

Yibo’s gaze lingered one last time. Then he stepped back, turning down the hall, walking away.

This time, Xiao Zhan didn’t wait for him to turn back. He gripped the suitcase handle, stepped into the elevator, and let the doors close.

As the car pulled away from the hotel minutes later, Xiao Zhan pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window. The city blurred past, bright and indifferent. Behind him, in a quiet hallway, lingered all the words they hadn’t said.

And in his chest, the silence screamed.