The messages started as fragments, small cracks in the wall they had built.

A simple “Good luck today” from Xiao Zhan before a premiere.
A quiet “Don’t skip meals” from Yibo during a long shoot.

Never long conversations, never risky words, but enough to feel real. Enough to remind them both that the thread between them hadn’t snapped—it had only been buried under silence.

And slowly, that thread began to weave something fragile but alive.

One night, Xiao Zhan sat in his dressing room long after the crew had gone home. His costume was still draped over him, makeup smudged from hours of filming emotional scenes. He slumped in his chair, staring at his reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, hollow cheeks, a smile that felt more painted than real.

His phone buzzed.

Yibo: “Still filming?”

Xiao Zhan’s lips curved faintly, almost against his will.

Xiao Zhan: “Just finished. Tired.”

The reply came quickly.

Yibo: “Of course you are. You push yourself too hard.”

Xiao Zhan chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Says the one who practices until sunrise.”

He typed back: “Look who’s talking.”

This time, there was a pause. He pictured Yibo, probably lying on his bed, phone in hand, frowning at the screen while deciding what to write. He could almost see the crease between his brows, the way he bit his lip in thought.

Finally:

Yibo: “I just want you to take care of yourself.”

Xiao Zhan’s chest tightened. He swallowed, fingers hovering before he typed:

Xiao Zhan: “And I want the same for you.”

For a while, neither of them wrote anything more. But the silence felt warm, not empty.

A few days later, Yibo found himself in the practice room again. His group had left hours ago, leaving the space quiet except for the faint echo of his sneakers on the floor. He stopped, panting, drenched in sweat, and collapsed against the mirrored wall.

His phone buzzed on the bench. He wiped his face with a towel and checked it.

Xiao Zhan: “What are you doing?”

He smirked faintly.

Yibo: “Dancing.”

Xiao Zhan: “At this hour?”

Yibo: “Yeah.”

A moment later:

Xiao Zhan: “You’re impossible.”

Yibo: “And you’re predictable. Bet you’re still looking over your script right now.”

There was no answer for a few minutes. Then a photo came through—a script on a table, Xiao Zhan’s hand holding a pencil poised above it.

Yibo laughed softly, shaking his head. He typed back: “See? I know you too well.”

The reply was immediate.

Xiao Zhan: “Maybe that’s the problem.”

The smile faded from Yibo’s lips. He stared at the message, frowning. He typed, erased, typed again. Finally:

Yibo: “Or maybe that’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

He hesitated before pressing send. But once it was done, there was no taking it back.

The three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again. Finally:

Xiao Zhan: “...Goodnight, Yibo.”

It wasn’t an answer. But it wasn’t a rejection either.

The next time they saw each other was at a commercial shoot. Different brands, different campaigns, but the studios happened to share the same building.

Xiao Zhan was on his way out, sunglasses and mask in place, when he spotted a familiar figure down the hall. Yibo, dressed in casual streetwear, leaning against the wall while his manager took a call.

Their eyes met, just for a moment.

Yibo straightened. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something.

Xiao Zhan’s assistant tugged at his sleeve, urging him toward the exit.

Xiao Zhan gave the smallest nod—barely perceptible, but enough. And then he walked past, heart thundering in his chest.

Yibo’s gaze followed him until he disappeared.

Later, when Xiao Zhan sat in the van, he checked his phone. A message had already arrived.

Yibo: “That nod. Does it mean you’re okay?”

Xiao Zhan bit his lip, staring at the words. Slowly, he typed back:

Xiao Zhan: “It means I saw you.”

The texts grew more daring after that. Not reckless, never reckless, but tinged with honesty they hadn’t dared before.

Yibo: “Do you ever wish we could go back?”
Xiao Zhan: “Sometimes. But the past isn’t the past if we keep living there.”

Xiao Zhan: “What’s the first thing you’d do if no one was watching?”
Yibo: “Talk to you. Properly. Without looking over my shoulder.”

Yibo: “I can’t stand pretending we’re strangers.”
Xiao Zhan: “Then don’t pretend. At least not with me.”

Each message carved deeper into the walls they had been forced to build.

One rainy evening, Xiao Zhan’s phone rang. Not a text this time. A call.

He froze, staring at the screen. Yibo’s hidden alias lit up. His thumb trembled as he answered.

“Hello?” His voice was quiet, cautious.

There was a pause. Then Yibo’s low voice, softer than Xiao Zhan remembered. “You answered.”

“I almost didn’t,” Xiao Zhan admitted.

“I know.” A faint sound of breathing came through the line, steady but heavy. “I just… I wanted to hear you.”

Xiao Zhan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The sound of Yibo’s voice after so long—unfiltered, real, not typed on a screen—was almost too much. “You shouldn’t call.”

“I know.” Yibo’s voice cracked slightly. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”

The silence stretched. Neither spoke, but neither hung up. The rain tapped softly against Xiao Zhan’s window, filling the spaces between their breaths.

Finally, Xiao Zhan whispered, “Yibo.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you make it so hard?”

Yibo let out a shaky laugh. “Because it already is.”

Xiao Zhan pressed his forehead against his hand, swallowing hard. He wanted to say more, to ask for something impossible, but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he whispered, “Goodnight.”

And Yibo, after a long pause, replied, “Goodnight.”

The line went dead, but the sound of his voice lingered like a phantom in the room.

The following week, they found themselves at yet another event. Different categories, different tables, but the same hall, the same cameras.

This time, when the cameras panned across the audience, Xiao Zhan didn’t look away. He let his gaze linger, just enough to catch Yibo’s.

And Yibo didn’t look away either.

The moment was brief, seconds at most, but it burned bright enough to etch itself into both their memories.

Later that night, Yibo sent a single message:

“I saw you.”

Xiao Zhan replied:

“And I saw you.”

It was enough.

But as their connection deepened, so did the risks.

One morning, Yibo’s manager stormed into the practice room, phone in hand. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, shoving the screen toward him.

A blurry fan photo. A figure in a mask, unmistakably Xiao Zhan, walking past a figure who looked suspiciously like Yibo in a parking lot.

“It’s nothing,” Yibo said quickly, snatching the phone away.

His manager’s eyes narrowed. “It better be nothing. You know what’ll happen if people start talking again.”

Yibo said nothing. He just clenched his jaw, hiding the fury that boiled inside.

That night, he typed a message to Xiao Zhan but didn’t send it. He wanted to say “We have to stop”—but the words felt like knives. Instead, he deleted it, threw the phone aside, and buried his head in his arms.

Across the city, Xiao Zhan sat in his own silence, staring at his phone, waiting for a message that never came.

The distance tried to return. The silence tried to swallow them again. But this time, neither of them could bear it.

Three days later, Xiao Zhan finally broke it.

Xiao Zhan: “Are you okay?”

It took a long time, but eventually the reply came.

Yibo: “Not when you don’t talk to me.”

Xiao Zhan exhaled, closing his eyes. He typed back:

Xiao Zhan: “Then let’s not stop.”

For a while, there was no response. Then finally:

Yibo: “Okay.”

And so they continued, fragile but unbroken, two souls walking different roads but refusing to let go of the thread that bound them together.

Every text, every glance, every stolen second—they knew it couldn’t last forever. But for now, it was enough.

It had to be enough.