The drive to the airport was silent except for the steady hum of the car engine. Xiao Zhan sat in the back seat, sunglasses shielding his eyes, though it was not the sunlight he was hiding from. The manager beside him scrolled through a tablet, already speaking of upcoming meetings, endorsement shoots, rehearsals. Words that blurred together into meaningless noise.

Xiao Zhan nodded at the right moments, murmured agreement when necessary, but his mind was elsewhere. Still in the quiet hallway of the hotel. Still watching the shadow of Wang Yibo turn and walk away.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, he told himself. They had known from the beginning that the project was temporary, that what they shared belonged to the bubble of filming schedules and long rehearsals. Once it ended, life would scatter them apart. That was the reality of their industry—always moving, always changing.

And yet, the ache refused to loosen.

He leaned his head back against the seat, fingers tightening around his phone in his pocket. A part of him wanted to pull it out, type something—anything. A joke. A thank you. A plea. But every draft he imagined sounded either too much or too little. And in the end, he did nothing.

The airport was crowded despite the early hour. Fans had gathered, their cheers rising the moment Xiao Zhan stepped out of the car. Cameras flashed, voices called his name, banners with his face waved in the air. He smiled, lifting a hand in greeting, as if the hollow inside him didn’t exist. The mask slid back into place seamlessly, as it always did.

Through security, through boarding, through takeoff, he remained composed. Only when the plane was in the air, city shrinking beneath the clouds, did Xiao Zhan finally let himself close his eyes.

For a moment, he imagined Yibo in the seat beside him, head tilted against the window, earphones in, lost in some song only he could hear. The picture was so vivid that Xiao Zhan almost turned to speak—only to open his eyes to an empty seat.

The absence burned.

Back in his own apartment, everything felt unfamiliar despite being home. The living room was neat, untouched during his months away. The couch, the kitchen, the bookshelves—all exactly as he had left them, yet somehow foreign.

He wandered through the rooms slowly, suitcase forgotten by the door. He paused in the kitchen, staring at the empty counter where Yibo had once leaned during a late-night video call, teasing him about his choice of instant noodles. He paused in the living room, remembering the times Yibo had sprawled on his hotel couch, laughing at something stupid they had both found hilarious.

The silence here was heavier than the hotel had been.

That night, Xiao Zhan sat alone on the balcony with a glass of wine, city lights sprawling beneath him. He scrolled through his phone mindlessly—messages from friends, emails from his team, fan edits from Weibo. And then, inevitably, his finger hovered over Yibo’s contact.

He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Instead, he stared at the name until his eyes blurred.

He told himself Yibo would be busy too—thrown back into his own whirlwind of schedules, interviews, rehearsals. Perhaps, in his own quiet apartment, he was feeling the same absence. Perhaps he, too, hovered over Xiao Zhan’s name but never pressed send.

The thought brought no comfort. Only a sharper ache.

Days passed. Work consumed him again—photoshoots, rehearsals, press junkets. He smiled on cue, laughed at jokes, answered questions with the practiced ease of a professional. From the outside, he was thriving. Inside, he was fraying.

Every so often, a photo of Yibo would appear online—at an airport, on a motorbike, at a fan meet. Xiao Zhan would pause, staring too long, memorizing details he had no right to need: the set of Yibo’s jaw, the tired curve of his mouth, the way his eyes looked softer when he thought no one was watching.

Once, late at night, he watched a video clip of Yibo answering fan questions. Someone had asked about his closest friend on set. Yibo had hesitated, smiled faintly, then said, “Everyone was good. We were like family.”

Nothing more. No names. No specifics.

Xiao Zhan replayed that hesitation endlessly, wondering if it had meant what he hoped or if he was just a fool clinging to scraps.

A month later, their paths crossed again—on a stage, under blinding lights, at an award ceremony.

Xiao Zhan had known it was coming, had prepared himself. He had rehearsed his smiles, his polite nods, his neutral expressions. But none of it shielded him from the jolt of seeing Yibo across the room, sharp in a tailored suit, hair swept back, the picture of effortless cool.

For a long time, they didn’t approach each other. Cameras were everywhere, fans screaming from every angle. They shook hands with others, posed for photos, delivered speeches. Colleagues, nothing more.

But during a break, when the crowd thinned for a moment, their eyes met.

It was like a punch to the chest.

Xiao Zhan forced himself to smile, just barely. Yibo’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite nothing.

And then the moment passed, swallowed by handlers and flashing cameras.

That night, back in his hotel room, Xiao Zhan stared at the ceiling again. The ache was sharper than before, because now he knew—distance didn’t dull it. Time didn’t erase it. Seeing Yibo again only made the silence louder.

Weeks turned into months. Life went on. But Xiao Zhan found himself haunted. Little things triggered memories—a song, a smell, a phrase. He avoided certain places because they reminded him of Yibo’s laughter. He lingered over others because they reminded him of Yibo’s quiet.

He wondered often what Yibo thought of him now. If he remembered the nights on set. If he regretted not saying more. If he missed him, even a little.

But the silence between them remained unbroken. Neither texted, neither called. Perhaps both were waiting, afraid of breaking something fragile.

One evening, exhausted from a long shoot, Xiao Zhan collapsed onto his couch and closed his eyes. His phone buzzed on the table. Without looking, he reached for it—expecting a message from his manager, maybe a reminder from a friend.

The name on the screen made his breath stop.

Wang Yibo.

His hand trembled as he unlocked the phone. The message was short. Simple.

“Are you free?”

Xiao Zhan’s heart hammered. He stared at the words, disbelief warring with longing. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen.

Minutes passed. Finally, he typed back.

“Yes.”

The reply came quickly.

“Then let’s ride.”

For a moment, Xiao Zhan laughed—half from relief, half from nerves. Of course Yibo would say that. Straightforward, deflecting seriousness with casualness. But beneath it, Xiao Zhan knew: this was an invitation. A reaching out.

His chest ached with a mixture of hope and fear.

He typed one word in reply.

“When?”

The answer came immediately.

“Tonight.”

Hours later, Xiao Zhan found himself at the edge of a quiet parking lot, city lights distant, the night air cool against his skin. He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, scanning the dark until the low rumble of an engine reached his ears.

And then, out of the shadows, Yibo appeared—astride his motorbike, helmet under one arm, expression unreadable.

He pulled up in front of Xiao Zhan and stopped, lifting the helmet slightly in greeting. “Get on.”

Xiao Zhan hesitated only a moment before swinging a leg over, settling behind him. His hands hovered awkwardly, unsure where to rest, until Yibo reached back, grabbed his wrist, and tugged his arms firmly around his waist.

“Hold tight,” Yibo said, voice low.

The engine roared. The bike surged forward. And just like that, they were flying through the night, wind whipping against their faces, the city blurring around them.

For the first time in months, Xiao Zhan felt alive.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead lightly against Yibo’s back, and let the ache in his chest loosen just a fraction.

For now, words didn’t matter. The silence was enough.

But deep down, Xiao Zhan knew: silence couldn’t last forever.