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Shang Qinghua never considered himself to be a prideful man. That simply wasn’t in his nature—or so he liked to believe. To most people, he was harmless enough: a timid, slightly chubby, occasionally perverted man who laughed too loudly at his own jokes and apologized too much.
But ever since he started dating him—his dream man, his impossible fantasy turned reality—things had begun to shift in ways even he couldn’t deny.
Dating someone like Mobei Jun came with… perks.
The man was gorgeous, successful, well-spoken, and the sort of person who made heads turn just by walking into a room. And somehow, he had chosen Shang Qinghua. Not just for a fling, but as a boyfriend. A real one.
And oh, how that did things to a man’s self-esteem.
He tried to play it cool, to tell himself it wasn’t a big deal, but deep down? He was glowing. All that affection, all that attention—it went straight to his head and inflated his heart like a helium balloon. He’d rather die than admit it, of course, but there was a little strut in his step these days, a little extra pride in the way he talked.
He bragged whenever he could. To coworkers. To online friends. To the poor barista who just wanted to hand him his coffee and move on. “My boyfriend made me breakfast this morning,” he’d say casually, like it wasn’t the highlight of his week.
In his mind, it wasn’t bragging—it was sharing joy. Reasonable. Healthy. Totally normal behavior for someone madly in love with the man of his dreams.
But lately… that joy had started to curdle.
Because for reasons beyond him, Mobei Jun had begun to grow distant. Subtly at first—less texting, shorter calls, fewer nights spent together. Then more obvious things: forgotten plans, unread messages, and the way Mobei Jun’s gaze seemed to slide right past him, like he wasn’t even there.
And that—that—Shang Qinghua couldn’t make sense of.
Not to toot his own horn, but he was a wonderful boyfriend. The type of man anyone would be lucky to have. He stayed home, made sure dinner was hot when Mobei Jun came back, packed his lunch, folded his laundry, even left little notes in his briefcase sometimes—notes that always went unacknowledged, but whatever, that was fine, he wasn’t expecting anything.
He kept the apartment spotless, did the dishes, and never once complained when Mobei Jun came home late or didn’t come home at all. He was patient. Understanding. Devoted.
So why did it feel like he was being slowly erased?
Shang Qinghua drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, staring at the untouched cup of coffee in front of him. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of their apartment. Mobei Jun had left earlier that morning without saying goodbye. Again.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, tapping faster. “No, no, this is fine. Totally fine. Probably just busy. Big boss stuff. Important people things.”
But the words didn’t sound convincing even to him.
“Regardless,” he said aloud, squaring his shoulders, “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Because if there was one thing Shang Qinghua hated more than being ignored, it was not knowing why. And if Mobei Jun thought he could distance himself without a word of explanation, well—Shang Qinghua would just have to find one himself.
Even if that meant discovering an answer he wasn’t ready to hear.
A couple hours later, Shang Qinghua was sprawled across his and Mobei Jun’s bed, the glow of his laptop screen casting a pale, eerie light over his face. The curtains were drawn, the room dim except for that bluish glow. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, tapping nervously as his eyes darted across websites he had no business visiting.
To anyone looking in from the outside, it would seem absurd. This wasn’t the sort of thing normal boyfriends did. This wasn’t even the sort of thing Shang Qinghua would have done six months ago. But lately, he wasn’t sure who that version of himself even was anymore.
See, there was a perfectly reasonable, sound explanation for why Shang Qinghua was searching for poison. Totally reasonable. Logical. Rational.
“I mean… what if Mobei Jun is cheating on me?” he muttered under his breath, voice low and shaky. “Wouldn’t I be well within my rights to… to, you know…”
He didn’t finish the thought. Saying it aloud made it sound too real, too dangerous. His stomach twisted, but he kept scrolling.
Shang Qinghua shook his head violently, as though trying to rattle the thought loose. No, no, no. This was just research. A precaution. A hypothetical. He wasn’t going to do anything—future Shang Qinghua could figure that out. He just… wanted to be prepared. Just in case.
Prepared for what exactly? He didn’t let himself ask.
His search history now looked like something out of a crime show: “cyanide where to buy,” “arsenic symptoms,” “lethal dose for adult male,” “how to make poison at home (safe).” He wasn’t even sure which one he wanted—arsenic? Cyanide? He wasn’t picky.
He scrolled further, clicking and unclicking tabs, fingers trembling slightly as he read over articles with too many exclamation points and badly written warnings. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that this wasn’t normal, that no one sane sat on their bed at two in the morning plotting hypothetical poisonings.
But another voice—the louder one—insisted this was self-defense. This was insurance. This was love, in its own twisted way.
Shang Qinghua’s breathing had gone shallow without him realizing it. He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed his palms into them until he saw sparks of color.
“I’m not crazy,” he whispered to himself. “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.”
He opened his eyes again. The laptop screen stared back, a new search bar blinking expectantly. His reflection was faint in the glass—eyes wide, hair mussed, mouth pulled into a thin, anxious line.
He almost didn’t recognize himself.
With a dry laugh, he leaned back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. “I’m such a good boyfriend,” he said, almost bitterly. “I make lunch. I clean. I do everything. And yet…”
The unspoken “and yet” hung heavy in the room.
He sat there for a long time, listening to the silence. Then, as if possessed, he sat forward again and began typing anew, more frantically this time. This wasn’t about poison anymore. This was about answers.
If Mobei Jun was cheating, there’d be proof. There was always proof. Maybe a hidden account. Maybe a second phone. Maybe receipts. Shang Qinghua’s mind spun through possibilities, and he started clicking through Mobei Jun’s social media, his email drafts, his work website—anything he could access.
A tiny rational part of him whispered that this was wrong, that this was a line he shouldn’t cross. But the louder part—the panicked, hollow part—kept whispering, find out, find out, find out.
And so he kept digging, deeper and deeper, as if unearthing the truth might finally make the gnawing in his chest go away.
By the time Mobei Jun arrived home—exactly at 4 a.m., because of course he would be punctual even at the ungodliest hours—Shang Qinghua’s laptop had long been discarded onto their shared bed, the screen frozen on some dimly lit forum thread about “natural poisons and their half-lives.”
The air in the apartment was thick, humid with the remnants of Shang Qinghua’s panic, and the faint scent of burnt candle wax still lingered from whatever ritual he’d convinced himself was necessary earlier that night.
When Mobei Jun stepped through the door, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the light still on in the living room, nor the faint hum of the refrigerator—no, it was the sound. The choked, broken sound of someone crying until their voice was nothing but a rasp.
He followed the sound like a hunter following blood.
There, on the couch, was Shang Qinghua. His body was hunched forward, face buried in his palms, shaking with each uneven breath. His eyes were puffy, skin blotchy from crying for what must have been hours. His chest rose and fell too fast, a mess of hiccups and whispered apologies that didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular.
Mobei Jun stopped in the doorway, watching silently. For a moment, he said nothing. He merely stared, his face unreadable, the exhaustion from work still evident in his posture.
Finally, with a quiet exhale, he set his briefcase down beside the wall and slipped off his coat, his movements deliberate, calm—like someone approaching a cornered animal.
“Shang Qinghua,” he said softly.
The sound of his voice startled the other man. Shang Qinghua’s head snapped up, eyes wide and wet, mouth trembling as he tried to form words.
“Y-you’re home,” he croaked, voice cracking halfway through. “You—you actually came home.”
Mobei Jun furrowed his brow. “Where else would I be?”
That question shouldn’t have made Shang Qinghua’s breath hitch the way it did. But it did. His lip trembled again, tears threatening to spill anew.
“I thought…” he started, then stopped, clutching at the hem of his own shirt like a child caught in a lie. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming back tonight.”
Mobei Jun’s gaze softened imperceptibly. He stepped closer but didn’t sit down yet. “You’ve been crying.”
Shang Qinghua laughed then—a sound that was far too close to a sob to be called laughter. “You noticed. Wow. Points for observation.”
“Don’t start,” Mobei Jun murmured, tone quiet but firm.
That should have calmed things. It didn’t. Shang Qinghua’s shoulders shook harder as he buried his face back in his hands, mumbling through half-coherent phrases. “You don’t get it, Mobei Jun, I—I do everything for you, everything. I clean, I cook, I— I stay up waiting for you even when I can barely keep my eyes open, and you—”
He stopped, choking on air.
Mobei Jun finally sat beside him, leaving a careful gap between them. “And I what?”
Shang Qinghua’s head lifted again, red-rimmed eyes meeting his with a kind of desperate accusation. “And you don’t even look at me anymore.”
The words hung heavy in the space between them.
As per usual, Mobei Jun didn’t respond immediately. His face remained still, perfectly composed, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “You’re imagining things,” he said finally, voice calm, almost too calm.
Shang Qinghua laughed again—sharper this time. “Imagining? That’s all I do these days! Imagine where you are, imagine what you’re doing, imagine if I even matter anymore!”
His voice cracked on the last word, and that seemed to finally break whatever reserve Mobei Jun had been holding. He sighed, long and heavy, the kind of sigh that carried months of exhaustion.
“Shang Qinghua,” he said quietly, “you need to sleep.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!”
“Then stop acting like one.”
That hit like a slap.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Shang Qinghua’s sobs turned small and strangled; his breathing stuttered. He stared at the floor, feeling as if the ground beneath him were disappearing inch by inch.
“I just wanted you to come home,” he whispered finally. “That’s all I wanted.”
Mobei Jun didn’t answer. He simply looked away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he stood again, retrieving his briefcase.
“Go to bed,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
He left without another word, heading toward their bedroom, and the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall made Shang Qinghua feel like the walls were closing in.