The rehearsal hall was quiet except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above. It was late—too late for anyone sane to still be practicing...but Wang Yibo had never cared much for that sort of boundary. His cap was pulled low, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose as his sneakers hit the polished floor in sharp, precise beats. His movements were crisp, each pop of his body echoing with the discipline of years of training. He pushed himself harder, as though every turn, every wave, every intricate footwork could somehow drown out the noise in his head.

Noise that wasn’t music. Noise that wasn’t rhythm. It was the endless chatter of the outside world—the contracts, the expectations, the carefully drawn image that wasn’t always his to control. And woven into all of it was the quiet ache he refused to speak about, the one that came alive every time he glimpsed Xiao Zhan’s face on a billboard or his name trending online.

“Yibo.”

The voice was soft, hesitant, cutting through the silence like a thread pulled tight.

He turned, pulling off his cap to wipe at his forehead. One of the younger trainees stood in the doorway, clutching a clipboard nervously.

“What is it?” Yibo asked, his tone short but not unkind.

“There’s… um, your manager said you need to rest. Early flight tomorrow. Japan showcase.”

Yibo exhaled heavily, nodding. He picked up his water bottle and tossed the cap back onto his head. “Got it.”

The trainee lingered, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Your performance was… amazing. Really.”

Yibo gave a faint smile, the kind that barely lifted one corner of his lips, before heading out. Compliments, praise, admiration—it all blurred together at this point. None of it filled the gap he felt inside.

Across the city, Xiao Zhan sat in a different kind of exhaustion. His script lay open in front of him, pages dog-eared and smudged with pencil notes. The drama he was filming had him stretched thin; days melted into nights on set, his body running purely on coffee and determination. The director was exacting, but Xiao Zhan welcomed it. The more he poured himself into his roles, the less space there was for the ache that lingered when the cameras stopped rolling.

His phone buzzed.

A Weibo notification. A trending topic. He glanced at it briefly and then froze.

“Wang Yibo—Japan showcase rehearsal footage leaked.”

A shaky fan-captured video played, grainy but clear enough to show Yibo’s fluid movements, the way his body carved shapes into the music with unmatched intensity. Xiao Zhan’s chest tightened as he watched. The years had only made him sharper, more magnetic, a presence impossible to ignore.

And yet, Xiao Zhan did ignore. He locked his phone, slid it face down on the table, and pressed his hand to his forehead. He could not let himself spiral down that path again. Not when every reminder of Yibo came with the sting of distance.

The industry had ways of making its rules clear, even without words.

“Don’t stand too close.”
“Better not greet him on camera.”
“The fans will misinterpret.”
“It’s safer this way.”

Safer. The word made Yibo’s blood boil whenever he thought about it. Safer for who? For what? Certainly not for them. It wasn’t safe to go from laughing together every day, from building a world only they understood, to pretending like none of it had ever existed. It wasn’t safe to carry the weight of silence, to bite back instinct every time their paths almost crossed.

The award shows were the worst.

Bright lights, glittering gowns, tailored suits, cameras flashing from every direction. The air always felt too thin, like breathing would shatter the fragile act they performed. Yibo would stand on one side of the stage, Xiao Zhan on the other. They’d bow, smile for the cameras, laugh at jokes delivered by the host. Perfect professionals. Strangers in public.

But their eyes would betray them, even if only for a second. A fleeting glance, heavy with everything they weren’t allowed to say.

One evening, months later, Xiao Zhan returned to his apartment after a long day of filming. His bones ached, his mind clouded, but he welcomed the silence of home. He poured himself a glass of water, sat down at his small kitchen table, and stared blankly at the wall.

The quiet was dangerous. It let memories crawl back in.

The first time Yibo had dragged him to practice dancing, laughing at how stiff he was.
The late-night hotpot meals, steam fogging the windows as they argued over who would pay the bill.
The warmth of a presence beside him that didn’t need words.

He closed his eyes, pressing his palms hard against them.

The silence was broken by a buzz. His phone lit up. A message from an unknown number.

For a moment, he hesitated, debating whether to ignore it. But curiosity won.

“You’re still awake?”

His heart stuttered. The words were simple, but something about them rang too familiar. Too much like a voice he hadn’t heard in far too long.

He typed back cautiously: “Who is this?”

The reply came almost instantly.

“It’s me.”

That was all it said. Two words. Two words that cracked open something inside him.

He swallowed hard, his fingers hovering over the screen. Logic screamed at him to delete the message, to ignore it, to protect himself from the inevitable chaos. But his heart… his heart had already answered.

“Yibo?”

The ellipsis appeared and disappeared, again and again, before finally the reply came.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk. But I couldn’t—tonight, I just…”

The message trailed off, unfinished, as though Yibo had deleted more than he wrote.

Xiao Zhan’s chest ached. He typed slowly, carefully.

“You shouldn’t risk this.”

For a long while, there was nothing. Then:

“I know. But I wanted to hear you.”

Xiao Zhan stared at the words, at the quiet desperation buried inside them. His throat tightened. He wanted to say something back, something honest, something that matched the pounding in his chest. But before he could, another message appeared.

“Forget it. I’m sorry.”

And then silence. The chat went dead, no matter how long Xiao Zhan stared at the screen.

Weeks passed, and life went on as though nothing had happened. But Xiao Zhan carried those messages like a secret bruise, tender and hidden, felt with every breath.

Then came another award show.

The hall was packed with the industry’s brightest stars, laughter and applause echoing through the grand space. Yibo stood with his group, perfect posture, unreadable expression. Xiao Zhan sat a few rows away with his castmates, his smile polished, his demeanor warm.

The cameras swept across the audience, capturing reactions, laughter, surprise. And then, for a single fleeting second, their eyes met across the room.

Neither looked away.

It wasn’t long—maybe two heartbeats, maybe three—but it was enough. Enough to unravel weeks of silence, enough to remind them that no stage, no rule, no whispered warning could erase what lived between them.

The moment was broken by the host calling Xiao Zhan’s name. He rose, smiling, accepting his award with graceful words that drew thunderous applause. When he returned to his seat, he didn’t dare look Yibo’s way again.

But Yibo had seen. Yibo had watched, his hands clenching inside his pockets as though that alone could ground him.

Later that night, when the curtains had fallen and the crowd dispersed, Yibo lingered backstage. He told himself he was waiting for his manager, that there was no other reason. But when Xiao Zhan appeared at the end of the corridor, walking with his assistant, Yibo’s breath caught.

For a second, neither of them moved. The assistant noticed Yibo, hesitated, then excused herself quietly, leaving Xiao Zhan standing alone.

The silence stretched.

“Congratulations,” Yibo said finally, his voice low, almost rough.

Xiao Zhan’s lips curved into a small, almost sad smile. “You too.”

It should have ended there. It should have been a polite exchange, a moment quickly forgotten. But neither of them stepped away.

“Why’d you text me?” Xiao Zhan asked quietly, eyes searching his.

Yibo’s throat worked, but no words came out at first. Then, softly: “Because I missed you.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Neither of them could take them back, even if they wanted to.

Xiao Zhan’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He took a breath, steadying himself. “Yibo… you know we can’t—”

“I know,” Yibo interrupted, his gaze fierce, unyielding. “But that doesn’t mean I stop feeling it.”

Xiao Zhan closed his eyes for a moment, as though the weight of those words pressed too heavily on him. When he opened them again, his expression was gentler, but no less pained.

“You’re on your road, I’m on mine. Different paths. That’s what they want. That’s what keeps us safe.”

Yibo shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Safe feels a lot like lonely.”

The words struck deep, too deep. Xiao Zhan didn’t answer, because he couldn’t. Not without breaking.

A staff member’s voice echoed down the hall, calling Yibo’s name. The moment shattered. Yibo glanced toward the sound, then back at Xiao Zhan. His eyes lingered, searching, memorizing.

And then he turned and walked away.

Xiao Zhan stood frozen, every muscle aching with the restraint it took not to call him back.

When the silence returned, it was unbearable.