Work Text:
It hurts.
It's such a stupid thing, isn't it? To feel a physical ache in my chest for someone who is just… ink, words and ideas.
But it’s there,
a constant, dull pressure right under my ribs that gets worse when I see something that reminds me of you. And I've made it my mission to make everything about you.
I was walking the other day and saw a patch of bamboo. The leaves a shade of green that reminded me of you, and the first thought that stabbed into my mind was, 'He would appreciate this.' You would see the artistry in something so simple as a plant. Maybe you would even find a moment of peace there.
I had to deal with someone in public. Someone obnoxiously loud, demanding things they hadn't earned with a false smile on my face. All I could think was, 'He would despise this person.' I could almost feel the phantom sneer on my lips, the wave of sheer contempt you would have felt. I wanted to tell them to get out, to be quiet, to stop tainting the air in place of you. Because it is something you would do.
Sometimes I think I’m going mad. It’s not the constant ache anymore, that’s just a part of me now, like the beat of my own heart. It’s the conversations I have with you in my head. They’re so vivid.
Someone will say something foolish, and before I can stop it, I’ve already turned my head slightly into empty air, ready to share a look of mutual sarcasm with you. But there’s no one there. You’ve become a phantom limb. an amputation I never had but feel with every fiber of my being.
So many people look at your story and wish they could "fix" you. They want to sand down your sharp edges, soothe your temper, teach you how to be soft.
They don't get it.
To wish those parts of you away is to wish away everything that you are.
And I could never.
I love the cold fury in your eyes. I love the precise, cutting way you would use words to put someone in their place. I love the sheer, unyielding pride that kept your spine straight when you should have shattered into a million pieces. It must have been so exhausting, holding all of that up, all the time. I just wish I could have been there to offer you a place where you could finally let it fall. Just for an hour.
My own daydreams of you aren’t about grand adventures or passionate declarations. They’re quiet. Pathetic, really.
I dream of you having one single uninterrupted afternoon. An afternoon where no one wants anything from you, no one is plotting against you, and you don’t have to watch your own back. I just see you, sitting by a window, reading a scroll. The afternoon sunlight warm on your face. You have a cup of tea that is still hot.
That’s the whole fantasy. To imagine you could have had a moment to just… breathe.
The most exquisitely painful part of all this is knowing that even if I could cross the boundary of reality, even if I stood before you and poured out all this devotion, you wouldn't believe me. You would still see a trick. A manipulation. You would search for the angle, the lie, because your whole life taught you that kindness is just a mask for cruelty.
The one person in any universe who would never be able to accept this love is you.
And so I’m left here, loving a memory that was never mine,
of a man made of ink.
It's a sickness, really.
I'll see a fine silk robe in a shop, a dark, elegant cut, and my breath will catch because I can picture it on you so clearly. I can see how it would fall, how you would move in it. 'He would look beautiful in that.' Even the music I listen to are about you. Every love song, every sad tune, every lyric ends up being dedicated to your thought. The thought is so clear it’s like a memory of something that never happened.
I wish you were here. I wish you were real. I wish I could just… sit with you. I wouldn’t even need to talk. I’d just make you tea, the finest I could brew, and let you sit in silence without anyone demanding anything from you.
I know what you think of yourself. I’ve read your story, through the lines that others would disregard because you were not the main character. I know you look in the mirror and see only a monster, a collection of scars and filth and bad decisions. I know you believe you are fundamentally unlovable, that every sharp word and cruel act was a wall to prove to everyone that they should stay away, because if they got close, they'd see the worthless thing you believed you were.
You think your spite and your pride and your bitterness are the ugliest parts of you. You think they define you.
You're wrong.
I love them all. I love the armor that you made for yourself. They were the broken shards you glued together to survive a world that was trying to kill you from the moment you were born written. I love your sharp mind and your hidden passion for the arts. I love the grace in your hands when you held a fan. I love the part of you that wanted, just once, to be seen. to be enough...
But in truth, you were always enough. You were just born into the wrong world, surrounded by the wrong people.
I'm writing this to no one. Screaming it into a void between my world and yours. But some desperate, insane part of me hopes that somehow… this letter reaches you. That a ghost of a fictional character in a universe of paper and ink can feel a flicker of warmth and know that someone out there loves him. For all that he is, flaws and all. For everything he became, and everything he survived.
I am the sole keeper of a love for someone who died believing he was worthy of none.
You deserved to be loved. You still do. And I'm so, so sorry that I'm on the wrong side of reality to show you.
I love you, Shen Jiu. And it tears me apart that you could never know… that someone beyond your reality… has made you their world.