Chapter Text
The sun comes up, and I open my eyes
But this night knows no end
I look around here and there
But I only catch a glimpse of you
Chu Yue stared at the door for almost a full minute before she sighed and knocked on it. She waited for another second before opening the door—that knock was only to let the person inside know she was coming. That person wouldn’t—and couldn’t—answer her. She carefully balanced the tray on her arm while her other hand opened the door; her leg kicked the door closed after she entered.
Her eyes darted from the person lying on the bed to the still‑full plate of food on the nightstand; her chest tightened at the sight of it. He still refused to eat. But at least the food was not thrown away.
“Dinner’s here.” She walked closer, replacing the cold dish with a freshly‑warmed one. The breakfast was not eaten, and the lunch was also ignored. She gripped the plate; a thousand words wanted to explode out of her, but she tried to hold them back.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” she asked, her choked voice surprised even herself. Perhaps it was unfair to ask a question of someone who literally can’t answer. She studied the bandage on his neck covering the wound, which was still healing after weeks, even though he could now eat solid meals. His body had grown thinner, his skin clinging loosely to his bones, as if he were fading. The sight terrified her; she never expected to see this person so devoid of vitality.
His gaze met hers, unchanged from the way he had looked at her for weeks. His eyes were vacant, but she felt a flicker of longing, as if he wished she were a different person. It hurt—but she understood.
“I—” she started, her voice breaking with emotion as tears blurred her vision. Grief unexpectedly resurfaced, a heavy cloak she had struggled to conceal, masking her weakness for the sake of someone else. It had been so exhausting.
“Can’t you stop wasting his effort?” she continued to ask. She was at a loss, unsure how to make this person want to live. She was painfully aware that he had no reason to live, and that she had a part in that reason being taken away. “He wanted to save you, too.“
Suddenly, she felt so weak. She fought to keep the tears at bay, but she couldn’t help but cry in front of him. At night, she would dream, and in each dream, she would watch everyone she knew disappear. It was a miracle that he didn’t disappear, and yet now she watched him wither away on purpose.
“Please…” she pleaded, her cheeks burning as she lowered her gaze, wanting to hide her face. She should walk away, but she found herself rooted in place. “Don’t leave me, too.”
She knew that it was selfish of her to beg him to live with no reason. But she couldn’t help it; she was afraid. Maybe her relationship with the two of them was different from the kind of relationship they had with each other. Maybe her love for the two of them was different from the kind they had for each other.
But it was love, too.
Mine, empty mind,
Please don’t look me in the eyes
and now, under that mask of mine
Digging into your skin, you don’t wanna watch what’s inside
She was prepared for death.
At least she thought so.
She knew that her life would probably be short—every day, she woke up ready for the moment when her guardian would finally tell her it was time to join the competition. Her guardian didn’t shy away from telling her what she was born to do—so, despite everything, she tried to live as happily as she could. She reasoned that if she acted this way, she wouldn’t have regrets when facing her end.
And yet, when she was finally forced to sign up, she found herself feeling unprepared. Her chest pounded, and in the stillness of her room, her laughter rang out, a sound that bordered on madness.
“How did it feel to you…back then?” she asked You Huo when they finally got a chance to meet. They had been raised together, attending the same class at Anakt Garden, and were also owned by the same guardian. And yet, despite all that, You Huo had entered the competition earlier and… survived.
“I felt…nothing.” You Huo answered, eyes downcast. Chu Yue knew that it was a lie—he probably just couldn’t understand what he felt. You Huo’s growing popularity and commitments meant they didn’t get together much, yet Chu Yue could see the strain of the competition on him, as his usually cold‑faced expression somehow became even more lifeless. She was happy that he won—but a part of her wondered if it was actually a good outcome for him.
“Oh, well, wish me luck, then.” Chu Yue said, and then scoffed at herself. Luck—there was no such thing for humans, especially not for them.
You Huo finally looked at her, his gaze steady, and said, “Chu Yue, I’ll join the stage this year.”
Surprise bloomed on her face, and Chu Yue fell silent. She thought You Huo was finally free from that possibility of death—he had fulfilled his duties. Her happiness for him stemmed, in part, from that very reason.
“But…you won.”
She finally realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was still too naive.
You Huo looked at her and, for once, he smiled, the faintest crease at the corners of his mouth. But this kind of smile from him was one that she couldn’t decipher. It was the same practiced smile that they were forced to practice—something was broken in it, like a mask cracked at the edges. Chu Yue had always been better at smiling, at making it look real.
She thought that her fate was sealed, like a lock with no key. She didn’t want to live by sacrificing another, yet her only desire was to live long enough to ensure You Huo’s survival. Though she believed that even without her help, You Huo would surely triumph. He was more popular with the crowd, more beloved. He was always known as the most perfect student; he became a devout believer and strove to perfect himself, always ready to sacrifice himself for their deity.
But she knew the truth—he wanted to live.
She was uncertain whether the other guardian had also done it, but their guardian had them watch videos of previous competitions so they could study and learn. She disliked it; she never watched more than necessary. But she often saw You Huo in his room, hunched over, rewatching the records intently again and again, absorbing every detail, the glow of the monitor painting his cheeks a paler shade.
Thus, she knew—he desired to live.
Despite their outward appearances, he probably had a greater will to live than she had.
Their guardian didn’t say anything to them about the competition, just telling them to practice. Losing one of them didn’t seem to concern them in the slightest. They also subconsciously avoided each other, choosing to practice separately and refrain from disrupting one another. Every time she saw him, she saw her impending death, and she felt herself becoming more and more uncomfortable—there was a growing knot of dread in her stomach, a cold knot coiled in her gut, tightening with each glance. The news that Qin Jiu was also competing this year intensified the complex emotions she was experiencing. She didn’t want either of them to die, fully aware of their shared history and the bond they possessed.
As the day arrived, knowing this, a sense of determination washed over her, but as the moments passed, her mind became a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. She had spent her whole life preparing for death, teaching herself not to want, not to need, not to hope. She thought she had learned to be content to live happily within her fantasies, but now the thought of never truly living a free life made her heart ache. There were still a lot of things she wanted to do—she wanted to feel what it was like to be loved like You Huo, she wanted to…
…she wanted to live, too.
Lonely jellyfish, softly floating high
Looking up at the sea of stars in the sky
With a tiny, glassy heart, seeking love so warm, gently drifting through foam
Searching for my friends, bubbling away
I don’t want to be alone, I’ll leave this place someday
The practice room was cold. Every room in the guardian’s house was cold, but the practice room felt colder than most. Chu Yue’s fingers ached as she stretched them, her guardian’s silent words still repeating in her head: Not good enough. Again. She had forced herself to move through the pain, refusing to let it show on her face. The cold didn't numb the pain; it sharpened it.
You Huo stood at the other end of the room, his posture perfect, his expression blank. He was one year younger, but sometimes Chu Yue forgot that. He moved like someone twice his age—controlled, precise, emotionless. She remembered when that wasn’t true. When You Huo was smaller, he used to cry during training. A cloth wrapped around his head, forcing him to sing, blind, silent tears wetting the fabric. All that so he could focus on the music as he was forced to learn and learn until he could sing any song at the right pitch and note perfectly on one try.
Chu Yue had learned to find him after sessions. She would sit beside him in the dark room and hold his hand without speaking; both of them were too tired to talk, but their presence was enough for each other. Slowly, over months, You Huo had learned to stop crying, to lock his feelings inside a vault. To become the perfect, obedient student.
They were alone most of the time. They didn't have other children to rely on, other friendships to distract them. They had each other and nothing else. It had to be enough. Chu Yue would tell You Huo stories she had invented about places beyond the walls, places they never knew. You Huo would hum melodies during their meals, the only time he allowed himself that small rebellion. She listened and weaved poetry in her mind, translating his music into words.
It was a thin thread of connection, but it was strong.
Then Qin Jiu came.
It was subtle at first. The way You Huo’s eyes would linger a moment longer when Qin Jiu spoke. The way his shoulders would relax a little when Qin Jiu was near, tension bleeding out that Chu Yue had never seen him release. The way he would hum more, allowing his melodies to become slightly less controlled, as if Qin Jiu's presence permitted him to be imperfect. Chu Yue watched and understood: Qin Jiu offered him something she couldn’t.
She watched as Qin Jiu chipped away at You Huo’s carefully constructed ice, piece by piece. Watched as the amber-eyed boy learned how to smile. Watched as You Huo, this boy who had learned to be cold to survive, slowly remembered how to be warm.
One afternoon, she found them in the garden. Qin Jiu was teasing You Huo about something, and You Huo’s lips had curved upward. Not much. But it was real.
Chu Yue’s breath caught.
She should have been happy. She was happy for You Huo. But underneath that happiness was something else: a cold realization that the stories she whispered in the dark would no longer be enough. She watched You Huo hold back a laugh, and for the first time in years, Chu Yue felt that old pain resurface—the loneliness that came from being alone. Her chest tightened. She convinced herself that it was fine—that sharing You Huo with Qin Jiu was better than keeping him frozen in ice with her. That if he was happy, her own loneliness didn’t matter.
The argument sounded reasonable in her head.
Long later, she found You Huo in the garden alone after Qin Jiu was called away for his personal session. She sat beside him, and he turned to her. His expression was still controlled, but his eyes were different. Softer. Alive. It was always like that when he had been with Qin Jiu. She remembered when his eyes only came alive around her. It didn’t disappear—and she realized that maybe, nothing had changed between them. That Qin Jiu’s presence only brought out the warmth that had always been there. He just became warm with someone else, too, and that warmth didn't diminish what he felt for her—it just meant she wasn't solely responsible for his light. Slowly, Chu Yue understood: she wasn’t being abandoned. She was being released. Released from only relying on him to quell her loneliness.
“You’re happy,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
He looked away, and she saw the confirmation in the tilt of his head.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispered, with a smile, “It’s okay. I'm happy for you, too.”
And she meant it. Even though sometimes, it still hurt. You Huo didn’t respond. But his hand found hers, and they sat together, a rare moment of him taking the initiative.
It meant the world to her.
At the end of this story,
There is only a cold spot,
Stained with blood and empty air
She couldn’t decide if it was good luck or bad luck that they weren’t matched up in the first round. Qin Jiu performed before them, and she watched as his eyes remained locked on You Huo as he sang, a not‑so‑discreet confession. He won.
After the previous round, You Huo finally stepped onto the stage for his first performance. Chu Yue watched the stage with bated breath, wondering if You Huo had been intentionally disadvantaged. The piece they performed was in a much higher key than You Huo’s comfortable range, giving an advantage to his female opponent. Even so, You Huo managed to secure a win.
Chu Yue sang her heart out in her first round, her voice echoing through the arena, but she quickly looked away as her opponent was shot in the head. Perhaps it was a merciful, quick death.
In the next round, they could only hear Qin Jiu, but his voice, full of determination, hinted at his eagerness to win as he poured his heart into the performance. Chu Yue suspected Qin Jiu had a goal—a goal that might align with her own. Out of the three of them, only one could survive. She turned to look at You Huo, who stood beside her, still with the same expressionless face. Over the years, he had perfected it to the point that even she had a hard time reading his thoughts. As they drew near to facing each other, a suffocating feeling of dread washed over her.
Chu Yue heard the announcement of Qin Jiu’s victory and finally noticed a softening in You Huo’s usual stern expression. It was small, but she could see relief—a slight loosening of his shoulders. Just for a fraction of a second, his carefully constructed mask cracked. His shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. Relief flooded his features, stark and unmistakable. But it wasn’t the relief of simple survival. It was something deeper. Qin Jiu was still alive. That meant something to You Huo. No—that meant everything to You Huo.
He turned to her, his eyes meeting hers in an unexpected moment. He stared at her, and she could feel her unease growing with each passing second. He seemed to want to say something, but hesitated. He turned away, and Chu Yue thought he had given up on speaking. However, just before they went on stage, she heard him speak at last, so softly she almost didn’t catch it.
“Chu Yue, let’s live.”
She was stunned. She didn’t have time to fully comprehend the meaning behind his words before they had to go on stage, staring at the audience cheering for them, and begin singing. Did he know her plan? Did he know that despite that plan… she still wanted to live?
She shut her eyes and poured all her focus into singing. Somehow, now standing on stage, she was unsure of what she wanted. She hoped he would live, but she also wanted to live. All she could do now was close her eyes and hope that if death were written in her destiny, it would be quick and painless. She became immersed in her own thoughts and world, ignoring everything else.
It was only when she finished the song that she realized she hadn’t heard him sing with her. They were supposed to sing together at the final verse, and yet as she ended the song, a horrible realization crashed down: she was singing alone. He wasn’t singing. He had stopped singing.
The sound of gunshots immediately jolted her from the performance, forcing her eyes open. As she turned to look at You Huo, he collapsed sideways, the gunfire still echoing as his body was struck multiple times. Without a second thought, she sprinted to him, dropped to her knees, and clasped his hand. She watched his body spasm, desperately clinging to life, his eyes fluttering shut. And then she saw it—a small smile on his face.
It was his last genuine smile.
He had made his choice for both of them.
And I'm still in a dream
In a dizzy tunnel, limping
I take in another ragged breath, going
Inside my heart, never-ending
Gao Qi strolled down the hallway, clutching a half‑finished beer in one hand and a fresh one in the other, when he noticed Chu Yue sitting outside Qin Jiu’s room, a tray of untouched food beside her. He couldn’t help but sigh, so he sat down beside her and downed his beer before asking, “Is he still not eating?”
“Yes,” Chu Yue replied, her voice sounding rougher than he expected, which surprised Gao Qi. He turned to look at her, and the sight of her tear‑streaked face took him aback. He actually felt a bit relieved to see her cry—the last time he had seen her cry was on that stage, when she was holding Qin Jiu’s body, begging him to take Qin Jiu too. Her voice had been raw with the conviction that Qin Jiu was still alive, that there was still time to save him. He assumed the girl had lost her mind, but he agreed anyway; she was, surprisingly, right.
Since then, she never cried again; instead, she was fully focused on taking care of Qin Jiu. Gao Qi saw her feigned composure, but he also felt helpless. To tell the truth, he had never truly recovered from his past, either, so he lacked the capacity to console others. He regretted it, but knew he could make things even more difficult. He could not have done anything better than stay with her.
“Hey, gimme that beer,” Chu Yue said. Gao Qi handed her the newly opened one and watched as she chugged the beer until it too was half‑empty. She was lost in thought, leaning against the door and sipping her drink silently. Gao Qi did the same—he continued drinking until his bottle was empty.
He should have brought three bottles. As his bottle emptied and he was forced to stay still with nothing else to do, he felt even more restless, yet he did not leave. He waited, watching her, before Chu Yue finally began to speak again, the alcohol now visibly affecting her.
“I knew… I knew I could sacrifice myself before him. I could do it. I thought I was ready to die,” she said, laughing wryly. Her eyes watered again, and she could feel the sting of tears as she frantically wiped them off. The guilt in her voice rang clear as a bell, irrefutable.
He kept silent.
“Maybe I really just didn’t want to be left behind, and yet, in reality, I also didn’t want to be the one who left.”
Gao Qi felt that he was still too sober for this. A sense of guilt washed over him; they couldn’t save everyone in time. He had realized for ages that saving everyone was impossible. It was already a miracle to save one, and they were fortunate enough to rescue two. Despite that, he couldn’t shake the guilt, especially when he was face‑to‑face with her like this.
You are not selfish.
He wanted to say that.
But he didn’t know if he was right.
Oh, my Clematis
Hope withered in the abyss
Oh, my Clematis
Please, stay by my side
My Clematis
Qin Jiu stared at the closed door, not sure how he felt after hearing Chu Yue’s words. She didn’t say more; she left right away after urging him to keep living, holding herself back from saying anything else. He knew that she had a lot to say.
In all honesty, he found himself at a loss as to how to go on. Living a long life was never part of his plan. Long ago, he had made a plan that required his life to be cut short. He didn’t mind—after all, he had few reasons to live.
But then You Huo ruined that plan.