Chapter Text
I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve been boxed into this genre. Romance. Romance . The word hangs there like a dull weight, smothering the air between me and the rest of the world. Romance. Warmth. Passion. Love. I write about it, sure. I sell the books. Best-sellers, according to Nie Huaisang. The kind that get stockpiled in airport gift shops, gather dust in half-priced bins, and leave me with the unmistakable sense that I am somehow failing at this— this thing I’m supposed to be good at.
But love—real love? That I don’t write.
I can craft characters, sure. I can string together sentences that sound romantic , even tender. But the feelings, the warmth, the mess of it, the unpredictable unpredictability of what people do to each other when they’re in love? I don’t get it. I can’t. My characters don’t bleed with passion. They don’t burst into tears because they can’t stand how much they want each other, don’t make mistakes that matter. I don’t even know what it feels like. Not really.
The reviews are out, and they sting this time. "Cold." "Emotionally distant." "Formulaic." These words have been printed, typed, read by people who can’t even hear the mechanical whir of my brain when I’m working. Who can't see how hard I try, how I labor over every word that makes it onto the page. What do they know about love?
I take another sip of coffee, the bitterness stinging my tongue as the review flashes before my eyes again. “Lan Wangji’s latest work reads like a clinical study of love—a writer detached from his own feelings, observing the mess of human connection from a safe distance.” A clinical study? Who needs love to feel like a goddamn heartbeat on paper? It’s fiction , I tell myself.
“Fiction,” I repeat, like I’m trying to convince myself.
I throw the paper down on the desk, leaning back in my chair. The clutter of empty coffee cups, notebooks, and pens—those damn pens that I always lose—are scattered everywhere. They’re mocking me. I run a hand through my hair, pulling at it. The words blur on the page.
The thing is, I know what the critics are getting at. They’re right. There’s no fire in my stories. There’s no soul in my characters.
I can’t write love the way they want it.
It’s always been like this. I can write the plot—the meet-cute, the will-they-won’t-they tension, the kiss in the rain—but when it comes time to dig deep, to get into the mess of it, I freeze. I can’t get close. I hold the pen, but my characters feel like strangers. I can’t feel their pulse, their breath on the page. I can’t do it.
The phone buzzes, and I don’t need to look at the screen to know it’s Nie Huaisang.
Nie Huaisang —my agent. The only one who sees my books as anything other than “cold.” He’s always a step ahead of me, running a race I didn’t even sign up for. He’s good at this—business. Numbers. Deals. He can sell sand to a desert, and I hate him for it. Hate him for knowing exactly what buttons to push. He’s the one who got me here. He’s the reason I’m stuck in this goddamn chair, fighting with words that never come out right.
The phone buzzes again. I don’t answer it. I don’t want to.
“Pick up,” Nie Huaisang texts. “This is important.”
I don’t want to think about it. But I know he’ll keep texting, relentless, until I give in. So I do.
“Hello?” My voice is hoarse, low.
“Lan Wangji, I’ve got an idea,” Nie Huaisang’s voice rings out with that slick, practiced charm he uses to make you feel like you have to agree. “You’re stuck, I get it. But you’re going to fix this, and here’s how.”
I can feel my jaw tighten, teeth gritted against the words I know are coming.
“You need help. You need to feel love. Real love. Not some manufactured, plot-driven nonsense. I’ve set up a meeting for you. You’re going to meet him tomorrow.”
“Who?” I’m already tired.
“A relationship coach.” Nie Huaisang’s voice doesn’t flinch. “His name is Wei Wuxian. He’s good at what he does. He’s going to help you unlock the kind of love your readers want to read about. It’s the best shot you’ve got, Lan Wangji. Trust me.”
A relationship coach . The words sink into my stomach like a brick. I want to laugh. “A relationship coach? You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Nie Huaisang says, unbothered. “He’ll teach you how to write love that’s real . You’ll feel it. He’ll show you how to feel it.”
I put the phone down on the desk with a quiet thud.
I’ve never been more irritated in my life. A relationship coach . I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t need some self-help guru telling me how to “feel” like I’m supposed to be some emotional sponge, soaking up the world’s messy, tangled web of affection. I didn’t need a damn coach to teach me about love . I’m a writer. I’ve written books on it. Best-sellers . Everyone reads them, right? So why should I let someone— anyone —tell me how to write what I don’t even understand?
But Nie Huaisang doesn’t stop. He doesn’t care. He knows I’m going to say yes. He knows that the second I feel the heat of a deadline on me, I’ll cave.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to waste my time on some hack who’s probably going to tell me about soulmates or— God —soul connections and unconditional love.
But I know I’ll do it. I know I’ll sit in front of this relationship coach and nod and smile and pretend that this is the fix I need, because if I don’t, I’ll lose everything.
The words “emotionally distant” echo again, taunting me.
My eyes linger on the blank page, mocking me. What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to turn this around?
Tomorrow, I guess. I’ll meet this Wei Wuxian and try to feel something. I’ll let him fix me— if he can.
But I can’t help it. The thought sticks in my head. What if he’s right? What if I’ve been doing this all wrong?
I push the thought away. I don’t need a coach.
But the voice in my head is loud. Louder than anything. I might need to find out if it’s true.
I might actually need help with this thing I’ve been faking for years.