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He stands like a blessing I was never meant to reach,
a beauty so sacred it trembles on the edge of breach.
To love him feels like trespass through something divine,
as though my desire keeps crossing a holy line.
Wu Suowei had long grown accustomed to interviews.
Studio lights, multiple cameras, polite smiles carefully calibrated for television—none of it fazed him anymore. He sat relaxed yet composed on the cream-colored sofa, legs crossed neatly, black shirt crisp against his lean frame. His hair was styled simply, falling just enough over his forehead to soften his sharp features. He looked exactly like what the public loved to imagine: a romance novelist who understood yearning better than anyone else.
Across from him sat Yue Yue—national television’s golden reporter. She was poised, professional, famous in her own right. Her voice had guided the country through late-night news segments and heartfelt human-interest stories alike.
“Suowei,” she began warmly, glancing briefly at her cue card, “your novels have dominated bestseller lists for years now, especially among young readers. Many people say your writing feels… deeply emotional. Almost personal.”
Wu Suowei smiled faintly. “That’s probably because I write about things people are afraid to admit they want.”
Yue Yue laughed lightly. “That honesty might be exactly why your readers love you.”
The cameras rolled closer.
“Let’s start with a question your fans are always asking,” she said. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Wu Suowei paused. The word love always made him cautious. “…No,” he answered after a moment, voice calm. “I don’t think love is that careless.”
Yue Yue raised a brow. “Not even once?”
He shook his head gently. “But attraction?” A small smile tugged at his lips. “That can happen instantly.”
The park was quiet that night.
It was well past midnight, the kind of hour when even the city seemed to hold its breath. Wu Suowei had left his apartment because sleep refused to come, his mind too full of deadlines he was yet to chase and he was being hit with a writer’s block.
That was when he saw him.
A man sitting alone on a wooden bench beneath a tall gingko tree, posture relaxed yet intent, head tilted back toward the sky.
At first, Suowei assumed he was just killing time—someone enjoying the cool night air. But as he walked closer, he noticed the stillness. The faint glow of a phone illuminated the man’s face.
His lips were parted slightly, as if silently naming things only he could see. One hand held the phone; the other traced slow, deliberate shapes in the air—connecting invisible points, drawing paths between stars.
Wu Suowei slowed unconsciously.
Moonlight filtered through the leaves above, brushing gently over the man’s features. His lashes were long, casting shadows beneath eyes that were dark and deep, like they had memorized the night sky.
Attraction settled into Suowei’s chest without warning.
He hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t approach a stranger, especially not this late. But something about the way this man looked at the sky—as if he belonged to it—made his feet carry him forward.
“Excuse me,” Suowei said softly, careful not to disturb him. The man turned as their eyes slowly met each other.
Wu Suowei forgot his next breath. Those eyes stared at him and Wu Suowei felt like he could be lost in their depths while they were slowly trying to study him as if Suowei himself had suddenly become something worth studying.
“Yes?” the man asked, his voice was low, steady, unhurried.
“I’m sorry,” Suowei said, a little embarrassed by his own impulse. “I just noticed you’ve been here for a while.”
The man blinked once, then nodded. “I have.”
“…Are you looking at the stars?” Suowei asked, gesturing vaguely upward.
“Mapping them,” the man corrected gently.
Interest sparked inside Wu Suowei immediately as he counter asked, “Mapping?”
“Constellations.”
“You can actually see them from here?” Suowei asked, eyes lifting instinctively.
“Yes.” The man raised his phone slightly. “The light pollution is bad, but tonight is clear enough.” He pointed. “Do you see those three aligned stars?”
Suowei followed his finger. “I think so.”
“That’s Orion’s Belt.”
“You sound very certain,” Suowei said with a quiet laugh.
“I am.” The man glanced at him again. “I’m an astronomer.”
“Oh.” Suowei smiled, genuine admiration warming his expression. “So this is research?”
“It’s not work if I enjoy it.”
He gestured to the empty space beside him. “May I?”
The man studied him for a brief second—calm, evaluating—then nodded. “Please.”
The bench was cool beneath Suowei’s legs. They sat close, their shoulders separated by only a thin line of night air. “What should I call you?” Suowei asked.
“Chi Cheng,” the man replied.
“I’m Wu Suowei.”
Chi Cheng’s gaze lingered for a second longer than politeness required. “Nice to meet you, Suowei.”
They fell into silence again, eyes turned skyward.
Chi Cheng continued, pointing out clusters and stars, explaining patiently. Suowei listened, rapt, not just by the science, but by the way Chi Cheng spoke about it. Like the universe was something alive. And at some point, Suowei realized he was no longer looking at the stars.
He was looking at Chi Cheng.
Yue Yue nodded thoughtfully. “So attraction comes before love?”
“Yes,” Wu Suowei said softly. “Attraction is instinct. Love… is something you grow into.”
One look, and my thoughts forget their measured grace,
they scatter and burn, unruly in his face.
His eyes open depths no prayer could ever seal,
pulling me under until I forget what to feel.
Yue Yue glanced down at her notes, then back up at Wu Suowei with a knowing smile.
“In your novels,” she said, “your male leads often describe eyes in great detail. Many readers are curious—do you have a preference when it comes to women?”
Wu Suowei laughed softly, lifting a hand to cover his mouth in an almost shy gesture. “I wouldn’t say it’s a preference for women specifically.”
Yue Yue blinked. “Oh?”
He lowered his hand, eyes curving as he smiled. “I think eyes are… honest. They speak directly to the soul.”
The studio hummed faintly.
“And what do they usually say?” Yue Yue asked.
Wu Suowei didn’t answer right away. Because suddenly, all he could see—
They hadn’t started as lovers. That was the unspoken rule they never bothered to say aloud. They were just two grown men who catered to each other to satisfy their physical needs.
At least, that was how Wu Suowei had framed it in his head the first time Chi Cheng stayed over. It was late as the clock showed nearly two in the morning. The apartment was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock in the living room. Chi Cheng had taken a shower, hair still slightly damp, wearing one of Suowei’s spare shirts—a bit too thin as well as a bit tight.
“You can sleep here,” Suowei had said casually, tossing him a towel earlier. “It’s too late to go back.”
Chi Cheng nodded. “Alright.”
They lay on opposite sides of the bed at first, the space between them deliberate. The city lights filtered in through the window, pale and silver.
Wu Suowei stared at the ceiling. Chi Cheng lay on his side, facing him. That was how it started. Wu Suowei felt it before he saw it—the weight of attention on his side. He turned his head slightly.
Chi Cheng was watching him.
“What?” Suowei asked, voice low. Chi Cheng didn’t look away as he quietly mumbled, “Nothing,” all while maintaining his gaze on Wu Suowei.
Suowei swallowed a bit harshly as he managed to scramble out the words a bit hoarse from their activities, “You keep staring.”
“I’m just looking.”
“At what?”
Chi Cheng’s gaze moved, slowly, deliberately—from Suowei’s eyes to his lips, then back up again. “At you.”
From that night on, Wu Suowei learned something dangerous; Chi Cheng had an obsession with his eyes and was always trying to stare into his soul. And the worst part was that it worked. Chi Cheng would pin him with that gaze while they lay tangled in sheets, breathing uneven, skin still warm.
Back in the studio, Yue Yue nodded, waiting for Wu Suowei to answer as he spoke, “They speak the truth, they don’t lie,” he added softly. “Even when people try to.”
There is a gravity there that undoes my control,
each glance unfastening another part of my soul.
I linger too long, knowing well what it costs,
choosing the ache over whatever is lost.
Yue Yue adjusted her posture slightly, expression turning more thoughtful as she moved to the next question.
“In your last two novels,” she said, “readers noticed a heavy use of astronomical language—nebulae, gravitational collapse, redshift, event horizons. It’s very technical, yet deeply romantic. Where did that inspiration come from?”
Wu Suowei didn’t smile immediately as he slowly spoke, “Just a new hobby I have been picking up these days.”
Chi Cheng’s study was small but meticulously organized.
Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with thick volumes—astrophysics, cosmology, observational data journals. The other wall was entirely glass, converted into a writing surface, equations layered over equations like constellations built on older skies.
It was nearly midnight.
Chi Cheng stood barefoot in front of the glass wall, shirt discarded over the back of a chair, his skin pale under the cool light. Symbols and numbers reflected faintly across his shoulders as he wrote.
Wu Suowei sat cross-legged on the bed behind him, notebook open, pen forgotten in his fingers. Chi Cheng had asked him to be his audience and listen to him explain his concept to ask questions but honestly all that was going through Wu Suowei’s mind was that scrumptious back on display, filled with a few scratches, as if Wu Suowei’s own canvas to mark.
“Stop watching and start listening,” Chi Cheng said without turning around. “This,” he said, “is redshift.”
Suowei forced his eyes upward, focusing. “The way light stretches as objects move away from us?”
“Yes.” Chi Cheng nodded. “The faster a galaxy recedes, the longer its wavelength becomes. The universe is expanding—not into something, but as something.”
He paused, then added, “It means everything is moving apart.”
Suowei frowned slightly. “That sounds lonely.”
Chi Cheng turned his head just enough to glance at him. “Only if you think closeness is static.”
He resumed writing. “Gravity still binds structures locally. Galaxies form clusters. Stars form systems.” His marker moved smoothly. “Distance doesn’t erase the connection simply because other forces would work to hold it together until it goes far too away.”
Wu Suowei swallowed. “You always say things like that,” he muttered.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re talking about people when you’re talking about space.”
Chi Cheng’s marker slowed. “…Astrophysics is full of metaphors,” he said finally. “Most people just don’t notice.”
Wu Suowei noticed.
He noticed the way Chi Cheng spoke when he was explaining something he loved—voice steadier, eyes brighter, movements precise but unguarded. He noticed how Chi Cheng would pause if Suowei didn’t understand, never rushing, never condescending.
And he noticed—dangerously—how beautiful Chi Cheng looked like this.
Wu Suowei stood quietly and crossed the room.
He came up behind Chi Cheng and leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on his shoulder, arms slipping around his waist.
“You’re distracting me,” Chi Cheng said calmly.
“You’re the one standing there half-naked writing equations like it’s normal,” Suowei replied.
“That’s because it is normal.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
Wu Suowei smiled, pressing his cheek against Chi Cheng’s back. “Explain something else.”
Chi Cheng studied him for a long moment, then gently reached back and rested his hand over Suowei’s wrist—still looped around his waist.
“Then note this,” he said. “Spaghettification.”
“…That’s a real term?”
“Yes.” A faint curve touched Chi Cheng’s lips. “Tidal forces stretch objects near a black hole until they elongate.”
Suowei laughed softly. “You’re making this impossible to take seriously.”
“You’re not trying.”
“I am,” Suowei protested. “I just keep thinking about how dramatic space is.”
Chi Cheng’s voice dropped. “It is.”
He turned back to the glass, but he didn’t remove Suowei’s arms and that—more than anything—made Suowei’s chest ache. Because Chi Cheng let him into everything. He would explain all his research, his theories—but never his intentions.
“Do you really think space is as romantic as you are making it sound in your books?” Yue Yue questioned gently as Wu Suowei looked down with a smile before answering.
“I’ve learnt it is even more romantic then I make it out to be. It is also just waiting to be understood too.”
Across his face, the universe left its quiet hand,
small, deliberate stars placed exactly as planned.
They do not wander—they instruct, they align,
forming a structure my heart learns line by line.
I trace them in thought, memorizing their way,
each point a vow I will never betray.
This is a map I will carry beyond flesh and breath,
a geography learned for eternity, even past death.
Yue Yue’s expression softened as she moved to the next question.
“Your recent novel,” she said, “has a male lead who believes strongly in superstitions and old myths. That surprised many readers, since your writing usually leans toward realism. Do you personally believe in myths?”
Wu Suowei tilted his head slightly, thinking.
“Myths?” he repeated. “I wouldn’t say I believe in them completely.”
Yue Yue smiled. “But?”
“But,” Suowei continued, voice lowering, “I think myths exist because humans want to leave proof that love once mattered.”
“That’s very romantic,” Yue Yue said.
Wu Suowei smiled faintly. “I am a romantic.”
He paused, then added, almost casually, “There’s one idea I like very much.”
“Oh?”
“The theory that the moles on your body mark the places you were kissed most in your past life.”
The studio went quiet for half a second—just long enough for the audience to react with a soft murmur. Yue Yue laughed gently. “That’s a beautiful thought.”
Suowei nodded. “Isn’t it?”
They were standing on the rooftop of Chi Cheng’s apartment building.
It was one of the rare nights when the sky was clear enough to make the city feel distant. The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of concrete and rain that hadn’t yet fallen.
Chi Cheng had brought a small telescope up with him, setting it up carefully, movements precise and familiar. Wu Suowei leaned against the railing nearby, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching him with quiet attention.
“Come here,” Chi Cheng said, adjusting the lens.
Suowei stepped closer. “What are we looking at tonight?”
“A few familiar ones,” Chi Cheng replied. “But there’s a new alignment I want to confirm.” He straightened, then began pointing upward with calm excitement. “That’s Lyra,” he said, eyes bright. “Vega is its brightest star. And over there—Cygnus. The Northern Cross.”
Wu Suowei followed his gestures, though his gaze kept drifting back to Chi Cheng instead of the sky.
“Do you name them differently?” Suowei asked.
“Name what?”
“The stars. Like do you give them some special names to identify them personally?”
Chi Cheng considered the question. “No, names are agreed upon. The stars don’t need mine.”
“But you like mapping them,” Suowei said. “You make connections anyway.”
“That's just an observation,” Chi Cheng corrected. “Not my possession, I don’t own them to call them whatever I want.”
Chi Cheng returned his attention to the sky, unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—of the way Suowei’s eyes traced his profile. He felt his eyes graze to the small mole just below Chi Cheng’s left eye, following to another near the corner of his mouth and ending at one faint mark along his collarbone, visible when his shirt slipped just enough.
Later that night, lying side by side in bed, rain beginning to patter softly against the windows, Wu Suowei traced invisible lines across Chi Cheng’s arm with his fingertip.
“What are you doing?” Chi Cheng asked, eyes closed.
“Mapping,” Suowei replied.
Chi Cheng didn’t open his eyes. “You’re bad at it.”
“Maybe I’m just using a different system.”
Chi Cheng turned his head slightly. “You romanticize everything, silly.”
Back in the studio, Yue Yue nodded slowly, “So myths,” she said, “aren’t about belief—but about feeling?”
Wu Suowei smiled, eyes distant. “They’re about the places we leave our marks.”
One kiss, and the world forgets how to stay whole,
space folding inward around body and soul.
I roam among heavens I never once knew,
constellations blooming in the space between two.
Yue Yue glanced at her cue card, then looked back up at Wu Suowei with a small, thoughtful smile.
“There’s something else readers often discuss,” she said. “In many of your novels, kisses aren’t just romantic gestures. They change the course of relationships. Do you believe kissing can make or break a relationship?”
Wu Suowei exhaled slowly.
“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly, “kissing isn’t trivial.”
Yue Yue waited.
“It’s how you feel another person,” Suowei continued. “Not just their lips—but their intent, along with their hesitation and the need to engulf and taste your partner.” He smiled faintly. “You can lie with words. You can even lie with your body. But it’s hard to lie in a kiss.”
“So you think it’s important?” Yue Yue asked.
“I think,” Wu Suowei said quietly, “it reveals what people are most afraid to admit.”
“I don’t want to complicate this,” Chi Cheng had said quietly.
“So I’m a complication now?”
Wu Suowei finally asked for labels only to that idea being shot down by Chi Cheng who named it “casual”. But sharing the meals, coming home to each other, understanding the universe at three a.m, allowing him to read his unpublished works—none of it ever felt “casual”.
Wu Suowei grabbed his jacket.
“Suowei—” Chi Cheng started. “No,” Suowei cut in, voice tight. “You’re right. This is just simple.”
The rain was heavy outside.
By the time he reached the street, he was soaked—hair plastered to his forehead, jacket useless against the downpour. His chest ached with every breath, anger dissolving into something raw and humiliating.
He didn’t make it far as he already heard footsteps splash behind him.
“Suowei!”
He turned and Chi Cheng was there, rain dripping from his lashes, breathing uneven for the first time since Wu Suowei had ever known him.
“What?” Suowei demanded. “Did you forget another pathetic excuse on how casual we are?”
Chi Cheng stopped in front of him. For a moment, neither of them spoke as rain continued to fall between them like static as Chi Cheng stepped closer.
Chi Cheng’s hands cupped Wu Suowei’s face with a desperation that shocked them both, lips crashing into his with a force that stole his breath. Wu Suowei’s lips parted as his thumb brushed over Chi Cheng’s jaw, and he combed his fingers into the hair at the nape of Chi Cheng’s neck. Tingles washed down their backs as Chi Cheng closed the gap between their mouths once again, first with the utmost gentleness, then with the hunger of a starved man. Wu Suowei made a delicious little sound and responded with the same hunger, sparking a fire in his belly. He didn't want it to stop.
Chi Cheng kissed like someone drowning, like someone afraid that if he stopped, the world would pull them apart again. He angled his face to push his tongue in much deeper, to claim as much of Wu Suowei he could.
Chi Cheng rested his forehead against Suowei’s when they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard. “I don’t want to lose you,” Chi Cheng said hoarsely.
Wu Suowei laughed weakly, as the pouring rain managed to hide his tears, “You already are.”
“It can break illusions,” he Wu Suowei continued to say, “And make truth unavoidable.”
“Sounds like you have some fond experience Suowei,” Yue Yue passed a harmless joke, as small giggles passed through the studio among the audience.
His hair moves softly, stirred by a passing sigh,
a gentle disturbance in the stillness of sky.
It brushes against moments I try not to confess,
each motion a sin I am unwilling to bless.
This love is devotion dressed up as ache,
a sacred mistake I would gladly remake.
If sin is to want him, to choose him, to stay—
then let me be ruined in the softest way.
Yue Yue took a quiet breath before asking the last question.
“Your novels are famous for one thing above all else,” she said gently. “Your love confessions. They’re intense—almost reckless. Many readers say they long for a devotion that pure. Have you ever experienced a confession like that yourself?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t.”
An answer he had practiced far too many times. “But,” Suowei added softly, “I’ve always wanted to.”
They were still standing there, soaked through, the street empty except for the sound of water striking asphalt.
Wu Suowei thought that was it—that he was about to lose the man he loved.
“No,” Chi Cheng said urgently. “I’m just—afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of wanting something I can’t calculate.”
Rain soaked into their clothes, into their hair, into the space between them. Wu Suowei lifted a hand, thumb brushing gently beneath Chi Cheng’s eye, over the small mole there. “You study the universe,” he said softly. “You know not everything follows rules.”
Then Chi Cheng stepped back as Wu Suowei’s heart sank at the sudden distance. But Chi Cheng didn’t leave. Instead, he reached up, both hands coming to cup Wu Suowei’s face again—gentler now while allowing him to stare into Wu Suowei’s big teary eyes—as much as the rain allowed him. His thumbs brushed away rain and something warmer beneath it.
“I’ve been wrong,” he said quietly. “About a lot of things.”
Wu Suowei searched his face, trying to read him, but Chi Cheng’s eyes were unguarded now—open in a way that made Suowei’s chest ache.
“I thought love was supposed to be logical,” Chi Cheng continued. “Something you could build toward once you were sure of all variables.”
He laughed softly at himself. “That’s not how this happened.”
Wu Suowei was processing the words just as Chi Cheng lost his grip from his face and began to lower himself. Right there, on the wet pavement, his knees were sinking into shallow water, rain soaking through his trousers without care.
“Chi Cheng—!” Suowei gasped, instinctively reaching for him.
“I choose you,” he said.
“I choose you,” Chi Cheng repeated, voice steady now, as if he’d finally solved the equation he’d been running from. “Allow me to observe my most important star, Wei Wei. I am sorry, I love you.”
Wu Suowei’s hands trembled as he pulled Chi Cheng back to his feet. “You idiot,” he whispered, forehead pressing to Chi Cheng’s. “You don’t have to kneel for me.”
“I can’t live without you,” Chi Cheng said, continuing his words. “I tried to. I calculated it every way I could.” His voice cracked. “But there is no version of the future where you weren’t there and I liked it. I need you more than I can explain. Let me cherish you, love you, and be yours.”
“Do you know,” Wu Suowei said shakily, “how long I’ve waited to hear something like that?”
Chi Cheng’s voice tightened. “I know how long you waited for me to stop pretending. I’m sorry for being so late Wei Wei. Forgive me just this one time.”
Suowei slowly said. “I’d hate to be let down one more time, Chi Cheng.” As he leaned down and captured Chi Cheng’s lips into another kiss once again, happy to have gotten the love he had wanted for himself all these months.
Back in the studio, the cameras held on Wu Suowei’s face. Yue Yue spoke softly. “If you were to want a confession like that—what would it sound like?”
Wu Suowei smiled, eyes shining. “Like someone finally understanding,” he said, “that love doesn’t need certainty. It just needs the two being in love.”
They formed a love that existed in a world of their own—one they never needed to step out of. They didn’t have to shout it to the world, didn’t need witnesses or proof, because they had already found their universe in each other’s arms.
And his proudest work, his one and only poem—dedicated to his beloved—would remain unread by the mass. But he was happy with that, because his world had read all his love in it glory.