The night after the award show, Xiao Zhan lay in his hotel room staring at the ceiling. The city lights outside painted faint streaks of gold across the curtains, but he kept them drawn, shutting out the world. His heart hadn’t slowed down since the moment in that corridor—those words, that look.

"Because I missed you."

He heard it again and again, like a recording looping in his head. He tried to bury himself in his script, flipping through the pages under the dim bedside lamp, but every line blurred into meaningless ink. His assistant had gone to bed hours ago; the suite was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock.

Xiao Zhan sat up abruptly, restless. He poured himself water, drank it in one gulp, then set the glass down too hard. It clinked against the table, a brittle sound. He pressed both palms against his face, willing himself to let it go.

But letting go had never been easy when it came to Wang Yibo.

Across town, Yibo sat in his own hotel room, headphones on but no music playing. His phone rested in his palm, screen black, thumb hovering like he was waiting for something to happen. His manager had warned him before leaving: “No texting. No late-night wandering. Cameras are everywhere.”

But his thoughts refused to obey. He pictured Xiao Zhan’s face in the corridor, the way his eyes softened but burned all the same. He pictured the hesitation in his voice, the unspoken words behind his measured calm.

Yibo let out a low laugh, almost bitter. All their managers, all the staff, the fans, the gossip—everyone believed distance could erase what had already taken root. But how could it? How do you undo years of laughter, meals shared at midnight, long drives with the windows rolled down, quiet moments when nothing had to be said?

He unlocked his phone. His finger hovered over Xiao Zhan’s name, hidden deep in a contact list under an alias only he would recognize.

One message. That was all it would take. One word.

But his screen stayed empty.

Weeks slipped into months.

The schedules were relentless. Yibo’s group flew from city to city, rehearsals blending into showcases, photo shoots blending into interviews. He smiled for cameras, bowed politely, answered questions with practiced brevity. On stage, he burned bright—sharp angles, fierce energy, every step of his dance commanding attention. Off stage, he fell silent, retreating into himself.

Xiao Zhan’s life was no less consuming. His new drama demanded twelve-hour shoots under the summer sun. He switched from costume to costume, scene to scene, pouring pieces of himself into characters until there was barely anything left to give when the cameras cut. Every time the director called “wrap,” he would collapse into his chair, drained but unwilling to complain.

From the outside, both shone brilliantly. Rising stars, household names. To the world, they were living the dream.

To themselves, they were strangers orbiting the same sky, never allowed to touch.

It was at another industry gala where the fragile illusion cracked again.

The hall glittered with chandeliers, a sea of gowns and tuxedos sweeping across red carpet and velvet drapes. Reporters lined the walls, cameras flashing like lightning. Yibo arrived with his group, every movement coordinated, every smile sharp. Xiao Zhan entered later with the cast of his drama, waves of applause following him.

Fate—or perhaps cruel coincidence—seated them at the same round table. Not side by side, of course. One seat apart. Between them sat a senior actor, cheerful and talkative, filling the gap with stories that neither of them truly heard.

From the corner of his eye, Yibo caught every shift of Xiao Zhan’s posture—the way his fingers curled around his glass, the way he leaned in politely to listen, the curve of his smile when he greeted staff. Too familiar. Too close and too far all at once.

When the dinner course was served, Xiao Zhan reached for his glass just as Yibo did the same. Their hands brushed. A fraction of a second, skin against skin.

Xiao Zhan froze. Yibo’s jaw tightened. Neither looked up.

The senior actor chuckled, oblivious. “Oh, what a coincidence.”

Neither responded.

Later, after the awards were handed out and the crowd began to thin, Yibo slipped out to the balcony for air. The cold bit into him, sharp against his skin, but it was better than suffocating under a thousand eyes. He leaned against the railing, staring at the skyline, lights shimmering like a restless ocean.

The door clicked open behind him.

He didn’t need to turn to know.

Xiao Zhan stepped out, adjusting his coat against the chill. For a long moment, neither spoke. The city filled the silence between them, a low hum of cars and wind.

Finally, Yibo broke it. His voice was low, rough. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Xiao Zhan gave a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Neither should you.”

They both laughed, soft, humorless.

“I keep telling myself it’s easier if I don’t look,” Xiao Zhan said quietly. His breath formed small clouds in the night air. “But then you’re there. And I…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Yibo’s gaze fixed on him, sharp and unflinching. “Then look.”

Xiao Zhan’s head jerked slightly, surprise flickering across his face.

“Look,” Yibo repeated, softer this time. “If pretending doesn’t work, then don’t. Even if it’s just for a second. Even if no one else sees.”

The weight of his words hung heavy between them.

Xiao Zhan turned away, gripping the railing. “You make it sound simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Yibo asked.

“No.” Xiao Zhan’s voice cracked, barely audible. “Because every time I look, I remember what it feels like. And then I have to spend the rest of the night pretending I don’t.”

The ache in his tone sliced through the cold. Yibo swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists. He wanted to close the distance, to reach out, to erase every layer of silence that had built between them. But he couldn’t.

So instead, he whispered, “Do you regret it?”

Xiao Zhan turned his head slowly, meeting his gaze. The pause stretched long, the city roaring around them.

“No,” he said finally. The word was quiet, steady. Then softer, almost broken: “But I wish it were easier.”

Yibo’s chest tightened, something fierce and fragile all at once. He stepped back, creating space where he desperately wanted none.

The door swung open again. Staff voices called. The moment shattered.

They went back inside, two polished stars in a world that demanded perfection, their conversation buried under the roar of applause.

Days later, Xiao Zhan found himself back on set, standing in costume under blistering lights. His scene required tears—raw grief, heartbreak. The director shouted, “Action!”

And suddenly it wasn’t the character he was crying for.

It was for Yibo. For the balcony. For the words they couldn’t say.

The tears came too easily, too real. The director praised his performance, thrilled with the authenticity. No one knew the truth.

Meanwhile, Yibo sat in a practice room miles away, music thundering from the speakers. His body moved sharply, every turn and kick laced with frustration. His group members watched from the corner, exchanging uneasy glances. They knew better than to interrupt when Yibo danced like this—like he was trying to fight something he couldn’t name.

When the song ended, he collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. He grabbed his phone, opened the chat that had gone silent for weeks.

His thumb hovered, trembling.

Finally, he typed one word.

“Still awake?”

He stared at it, the cursor blinking. His pulse thundered.

Before he could send, he deleted it.

The screen went black again.

But fate, it seemed, was relentless.

The next month, their paths crossed once more—not in a glittering hall, not in a staged event, but in the quiet corner of an airport.

Xiao Zhan had just landed from an overseas shoot, exhaustion weighing on him. His cap was pulled low, mask covering most of his face. He followed his assistant through the nearly empty terminal, relief flooding him at the lack of fans.

And then he saw him.

Wang Yibo.

Standing by the gate, luggage at his side, head bent over his phone. Alone.

Xiao Zhan’s heart stopped. For a second, he thought about turning away, walking faster, pretending he hadn’t seen. But his feet refused to move.

Yibo looked up. Their eyes locked.

It was the same as always—seconds that stretched into eternity, a world built in silence.

Yibo’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak. Xiao Zhan’s assistant turned, calling his name. The spell broke.

Xiao Zhan dropped his gaze, moving past quickly. But his fingers, hidden in his pocket, curled tight around his phone.

That night, when he was finally alone in his hotel room, he unlocked it. His messages were still there. Empty, unfinished. He hesitated, then typed:

“Did you get home safe?”

He stared at it, heart pounding, before pressing send.

The reply came faster than he expected.

“Yeah. You?”

His breath caught. His fingers trembled.

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then Yibo’s next message:

“I’m glad you texted.”

The silence that had stretched for months finally cracked, replaced by a fragile thread of words blinking across a screen.

They didn’t say much that night. Just simple things—“Are you eating well?” “You must be tired.” “Good luck tomorrow.”

But it was enough. Enough to remind them that no matter how many roads pulled them apart, their voices could still find each other in the dark.

And for the first time in months, both of them slept with lighter hearts.