Shu Yao reached his front door with the last scraps of strength left in him.
Mr. George insisted on helping him inside, one steady hand at his back, but Shu Yao somehow managed a smile—thin, polite, exhausted.
"I… I can manage," he whispered. His voice trembled like something bruised.
"Shu Yao, you're barely standing." George frowned, worry creasing his usually composed expression. "Let me—"
"I'll be fine." Shu Yao bowed his head, almost apologetically. "You've done enough already. I don't want to trouble you more."
George hesitated, searching his face as if looking for an excuse to stay. But Shu Yao, stubborn in a painfully gentle way, gave a small nod—quiet dismissal.
Reluctantly, George stepped back.
"If anything happens, call me immediately."
"Mhm." Shu Yao lowered his eyes.
George lingered one more heartbeat, then turned away. His footsteps faded down the hall, down the stairs, out of the house —until the entire world fell into an aching silence.
Shu Yao closed the door with a shaky exhale.
He was alone again.
Utterly, helplessly alone.
He pressed a hand to his chest, His head spun, but he pushed through the dizziness and drifted toward his bedroom. The house was dim, quiet, untouched—exactly how he left it.
Loneliness sat in the corners like dust.
But at least here…
at least here nobody would hear him break.
Shu Yao lay on his narrow bed, half-turned toward the window.
The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic from the hospital, but Juju was curled beside him, a warm, small presence that kept the night from swallowing him whole.
His eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion, though sleep did nothing to loosen the knots inside his chest.
The chaos of the day clung to him like smoke. He had endured too much—too many shocks, too many accusations, too many ghosts pressing in from every side.
His throat tightened at the thought of that file.
Those forged signatures.
Bai Qi's signature.
So elegant, so distinct—only someone who had watched him for years could imitate it so perfectly. Only someone like Shu Yao.
He breathed through the stinging behind his eyes.
Bai Qi wouldn't believe him now.
Not when Bai Qi saw his signature printed on a malicious file so perfectly, there would be no turning back. No explanation would matter. No truth would survive the suspicion.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the open window and the thin night breeze drifting through it. His eyes snapped open suddenly, as if tugged awake by a thread of pure dread.
He sat up too fast. The room swayed.
Juju didn't stir.
Shu Yao forced his trembling legs to stand. He staggered to his study table where his journal lay—its leather cover soft from years of being held, its corners worn, its pages heavy with words he wished he'd never written.
He sank into the chair.
"What am I supposed to do with this…" he whispered to the silent room.
His fingers rested on the cover as if touching something living.
Inside were all his confessions to Bai Qi—every emotion he had never spoken, every truth locked behind his teeth. It was the only place where his heart existed in honest shape, and now Mr. George had seen it. Shame licked at him like fire.
He lifted the journal, holding it against his chest.
He should burn it.
Throw it away.
Destroy it before someone else again found it and turned it into a weapon.
But he couldn't.
He stood with unsteady steps and approached the wardrobe. When he opened it, the faint scent of old winter coats seeped out. He buried the journal beneath a torn shirt—the shirt he had worn the day his dignity shattered, the day no one should ever know about.
He pushed it deep into the shadows and closed the wardrobe door with a soft click.
At least it was hidden.
At least no one would see the ugliness inside him.
He returned to bed, lowering himself quietly. Juju slept on, a curled ball of orange fur on his left side. Shu Yao stroked the cat gently, the repetitive motion grounding him just enough to keep him from shattering.
Tomorrow he would face Bai Qi again.
That cold stare.
That blade-like silence that stripped him bare.
But , then His fingers drifted to his lips.
His breathing stilled.
The memory, of how Bai qi had kissed him
Bai Qi had kissed him.
Not once now but Twice.
His eyes shimmered before he forced them shut.
But Bai Qi hadn't kissed him.
He had kissed the ghost of Qing Yue—the girl who looked like him, the girl whose memory haunted Bai Qi like a curse. Shu Yao was merely the mistake. The stand-in. The shadow
Pointless, he thought. Meaningless for him.
But for Shu Yao… it had been everything. A moment he would never forget, even though he knew it meant nothing to the man he loved.
He shut his eyes again, tears slipping silently down.
Sorrow.
Bai Qi's cruelty.
The torment Shen Haoxuan inflicted.
The terror of the elevator.
The blame of his own sister.
Everything fell on him.
Everything crushed him.
And the final blow—Qing Yue no longer appeared in his dreams. She had told him the day she died: that night she appears in his dreams, but she is disappointed.
She won't come into his dreams again that was the last time, and he still remember the echoing of her words, before dissolving into nothing.
If you don't confess and tell Bai Qi the truth… I won't come to your dreams again.
His mother abandoned him.
His father abandoned him.
Qing Yue abandoned him.
And Bai Qi—cold, unreachable Bai Qi too had—abandoned him from the very start.
Shu Yao fell asleep with tears drying on his skin.
Alone.
Utterly alone.
On the other side of the city, in Bai Qi's villa
Bai Qi tossed violently on his bed. Sweat drenched his temples, his breaths shallow and ragged.
Nightmares gripped him with claws.
Qing Yue's face—cold, distant, sorrow carved into every line—hovered before him. whispering words he couldn't grasp. Whispers about Shu Yao. About her "gege." About truths buried too deep to unearth.
Bai Qi tried to move but couldn't. The dream trapped him as if the air were thick glass.
The moment Qing Yue vanished, a second figure appeared—the girl who resembled her. Then everything collapsed into stillness. The girl faded. Qing Yue faded.
Bai Qi was alone in a ruined landscape.
Ruins stretched beneath a darkened sky. Fractured stone pillars. Cracked earth. Yet strangely beautiful—like a cathedral left behind by time. A wild field of roses stretched out before him, wind fluttering their petals.
He frowned.
He hated roses.
The moment he took a breath, the roses withered.
He froze.
He looked down—every flower near him wilted at his presence, curling and blackening as if scorched.
His stomach twisted. He stepped back, but the damage had already rippled outward. The entire field shriveled before his eyes.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
He didn't have time to understand. A figure stood ahead—a child with autumn-brown hair, soft features, and glistening brown eyes. The boy's expression held pure sorrow, a pain too heavy for a child to bear.
Bai Qi's heart lurched.
He knew that face.
Sixteen years ago.
The same child who had—
But the child stepped back when Bai Qi stepped forward. Fear trembled through his small frame, and before Bai Qi could reach him, the child fled.
"Wait—!" Bai Qi shouted, running after him.
The field warped. The roses dissolved into smoke.
Bai Qi blinked—and the world changed.
Now he stood on soft green grass. A lake stretched before him, its surface still as glass. Someone sat at its edge, reading.
Bai Qi approached.
He stopped dead.
Shu Yao.
Sitting exactly where Qing Yue once sat in his memories.
And in Shu Yao's hands—
A journal.
The journal.
The one Qing Yue mentioned.
The one she told him to find.
The one that supposedly held truths he doesn't know about.
Bai Qi's pulse stuttered.
He wanted it.
He needed it.
"Return that journal," he barked.
Shu Yao's head jerked up.
His face drained of color.
He hid the journal behind his back instinctively, hands trembling.
Bai Qi stepped closer. "Didn't you hear me?"
Shu Yao shook his head violently, eyes shimmering.
Bai Qi's jaw clenched. Patience snapped.
He lunged.
Shu Yao stumbled backward—
And slipped.
His body crashed into the lake. Water splashed high, swallowing him instantly.
Bai Qi cursed, fury boiling. He reached into the water, grabbing the journal before Shu Yao could keep it hidden—but it slipped from the boy's wet fingers, pages flooding with lakewater, ink bleeding into ruin.
Bai Qi's rage detonated.
"I told you to give it to me—!"
Shu Yao's head broke the surface; he gasped, coughing, struggling, terrified. Bai Qi seized his wrist and yanked him out of the water.
Shu Yao collapsed on the grass, shivering uncontrollably.
His thin white shirt clung to his skin like a second layer—every fragile line of his body visible beneath the wet fabric. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Shame reddened his cheeks. His hair clung to his face in dripping strands. His lashes were soaked, trembling over his unfocused, guilty eyes.
Bai Qi inhaled sharply.
He turned his face away instantly, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He hated it.
He hated how much the resemblance struck him—Shu Yao and Qing Yue, identical in fragility, in posture, in the way their fear looked.
He hated that he didn't understand why this image twisted something in his gut.
He hated that he felt anything at all.
He hated Shu Yao most of all—for making him feel it.
Behind him, Shu Yao whispered in a voice that shook with both cold and shame:
"…I'm sorry…"
Bai Qi froze for only half a heartbeat.
Then the words I'm sorry slithered into his ears like a match falling into a pool of oil.
In an instant, he seized Shu Yao by the collar.
The boy's breath hitched. His fingers curled around Bai Qi's wrist, too weak, too frightened.
"What," Bai Qi snarled, "did you think that would fix anything?"
Shu Yao's lips trembled. "I—I didn't mean—"
"You ruined it," Bai Qi barked, shaking him once, hard. "That journal. Why—why did you destroy it?"
Shu Yao's lashes quivered as fresh tears gathered. "There… there was nothing useful inside."
Bai Qi's grip tightened, knuckles whitening. "Useful or useless—who the hell told you it was your decision?" His voice cracked into something feral. "What did you write in that damn journal?"
Shu Yao wilted under his glare, shoulders trembling. "I… I can't."
"You can't?" Bai Qi's fury rose like a dark tide. "Mocking me? Is that what this is?"
Shu Yao shook his head quickly. "N-no—I don't want anyone to know. It's… disgusting."
Shu Yao's tears slid down his pale cheeks as he whispered, "It's ugly… you wouldn't stand it."
Bai Qi snapped.
He shoved Shu Yao backward against the dream-world grass, one hand clamping around the boy's throat—not choking, not bruising, but controlling, gripping the last strand of sanity left in his rage.
"Speak," Bai Qi hissed. "Or I swear—"
Shu Yao choked on a breath, eyes glassy. "I—I am sorry, Bai Qi… I… I…"
The words died. His throat worked uselessly.
Bai Qi's temper detonated.
"Speak."
And Shu Yao did.
Brokenly. Hopelessly. Honestly.
"I love you, Bai Qi."
Time did not stop.
It collapsed.
Bai Qi froze, hand slackening as if his own arm no longer belonged to him. His eyes widened—empty, disbelieving, horrified.
Shu Yao swallowed and said it again, clearer this time, with the kind of doomed certainty that drags a man into the sea:
"I'm sorry. I love you. Not like a brother… not like a friend. I love you, because I can't live without you."
Bai Qi staggered back a step.
It was like being touched by fire—uninvited, burning, intimate. Something he did not want, did not understand, did not know how to survive.
"You…" Bai Qi's voice cracked, raw as bleeding glass. "You—what—"
Shu Yao scrambled up, terrified he had pushed too far. "I didn't want to tell you—I didn't want to hurt you—"
"You dare to?" Bai Qi rasped.
He bit down on the next words, jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his neck trembled.
Shu Yao took a shaky step back. "I didn't want you to know. That's why I destroyed the journal. I thought—if you read it—you would hate me more. I thought—"
"You're delusional," Bai Qi spat, though the words wavered.
"I know," Shu Yao whispered. "It's wrong. I'm wrong. That's why I never wanted you to find out."
"Then why say it now?" Bai Qi shouted, voice breaking like thunder against a cliff. "Why—"
"Because you wouldn't let me go!" Shu Yao cried, tears spilling freely now. "You kept demanding—kept pushing—kept—"
He sucked in a shuddered breath. "I can't lie to you, when you were already breaking…"
Bai Qi faltered.
Something inside him twisted violently—revulsion, shock, confusion, grief he had no name for.
"This…" Bai Qi whispered, almost to himself. "This is madness."
Shu Yao nodded, crying harder. "Yes… it is. And I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have love you. I know you'll never look at me that way. I know you only see my sister when you look at me."
Something shattered behind Bai Qi's ribs.
Not pity.
Not affection.
Something more dangerous—something he immediately crushed before it took form.
"You should have stayed silent," Bai Qi said in a low, shaking voice. "You should have kept this buried."
"I tried," Shu Yao whispered. "I really tried."
The dream twisted around them—the lake, the ruined field, the echo of the child Bai Qi once saw. Everything warped with tension, with emotion too sharp and too big for the fragile space between them.
Bai Qi's hands hung uselessly at his sides.
Shu Yao waited for hatred.
He braced for the scream.
Instead, Bai Qi stepped back again—as if the boy's confession was something with fangs.
"You…" he whispered, trembling with something he refused to name. "Stay away from me."
Shu Yao's face crumpled.
But still he smiles, that aching smile, and muttered something that Bai qi didn't quite hear.