Chapter 22

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“A secret crush has always been her one-woman play.
Her joy and her sorrow all begin with him—yet have nothing to do with him.”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
_
“Achoo—”
Qin Sang couldn’t hold back a sneeze.
Deep autumn nights by the river were cold. After being out in the wind for so long, she inevitably felt chilled. She was lightly dressed—a mint-green knit dress that clung to her curves, outlining a slender figure. Her collarbones were straight, her neck thin—like a bellflower blooming on a spring branch, curling at the edges, swaying gracefully. When a breeze passed, dew-beaded petals trembled and shed sparkling drops.
The river wind cut like a knife. Qin Sang rubbed her arms. The cold seeped in from every gap, drilling in from the back of her neck. She shivered, hunching her shoulders, trembling alone in the bleak wind.
Suddenly, a weight fell on her shoulders. A shadow dropped over her. When she looked up, she only saw a man’s prominent throat—sharp Adam’s apple, shirt collar slightly open, a straight line of collarbone faintly visible.
She ducked her head, not daring to look around. A black shell jacket, still warm from his body, fell over her thin shoulders, wrapping her in warmth. She lowered her lashes and breathed in lightly. A trace of mint lingered at her nose—the smell of candy.
“Better?”
His voice was no longer that of a boy. After adolescence, it had dropped—lower, a little hoarse, with a muted magnetism.
Qin Sang’s ears tingled. Even the left shoulder his hand brushed felt numb and boneless, her whole body soft.
She nodded stiffly, fingers clutching the edge of the jacket. The metal zipper was cold, digging into her fingertips. “Better. Thank you.”
Xie Yuncheng raised a brow. “So polite?”
She looked up, puzzled.
He hooked his lips carelessly. The smile at his mouth was faint, but his eyes were clear and deep—like mirrors that made her panic.
Under that gaze, her fingers tightened around the zipper. The cool metal bit into her skin, leaving shallow marks.
She wasn’t sure if she’d heard wrong or if he had really said something then.
A sneeze had cut him off.
Fireworks shot up at that moment, exploding with a bang, scattering like falling stars.
She only caught fragments: “repay”… “kindness.”
Her heart floated like a helium balloon—dizzy, weightless, tossed. Her chest churned like oil over fire.
She felt cautious, a little lost.
It was as if one remark from him could easily cast her into a maze—fog all around, no way ahead, no way out.
That feeling was not new.
She had looked up to him for so long. For three years of high school, almost every night alone had been spent in that same anxious, gain-and-loss tangle.
He’d owned her entire girlhood’s dreams. But…
She knew they didn’t belong to the same world. She’d told herself countless times—not to be greedy, not to indulge in delusion.
Her love had always been quiet.
It didn’t demand an answer. It didn’t demand he ever know.
…
Stories end; people part.
The play falls to its curtain call; the actors disperse; tea cools when people leave.
The river still flowed, churning on. Across the way, fireworks had gone dark. The noisy crowd thinned and vanished. Only the lanterns remained, floating with their wishes—drifting silently on the water.
Sister Wen had arrived. The driver waited with the car nearby.
“Let’s go, Classmate…”
He paused, as if joking. “Classmate Qin.”
Her heart felt empty and bleak. She smiled faintly.
“Classmate.” He didn’t understand.
She wouldn’t dare claim more—wouldn’t dare force closeness. Just a few brief encounters were enough to make her both fearful and secretly delighted. She didn’t dare get too close, or talk too much. She was afraid someone would see through her shabby little secret.
Even after thinking of him so long, she still didn’t dare let him know.
“Classmate” was perfect—not too close, not cold.
He didn’t know how grateful she was for that title. Under its cover, she could approach him as if it were only right and natural.
Just classmates. For her, that was already the best ending she’d ever expected.
She followed a step behind him.
Streetlamps were dim. Moths circled blindly around the yellow beams, flapping hard but never breaking free—drawn again and again into the heat and light.
Their shadows stretched long. Sometimes, briefly, the two would overlap—then separate as quickly as they came together.
She watched his back silently. He seemed even taller than before—his frame more solid than the boy he’d been. Slim shoulders filled his shirt, a belt at his waist drawing a firm line. A short tuft of hair at the back of his head stuck up, like the tip of a tail peeking out.
For a moment, it felt like time warped. The thin boy she’d known overlapped with him—alternating, merging.
In the past, his back was what she saw most.
Sometimes passing through the corridor, a boy would drape an arm around his shoulders. Xie Yuncheng, noble and lazy, brows resting in casual indifference.
Sometimes in the cafeteria, she’d stand in a long line. Through the sea of bodies she’d catch his upright figure. She couldn’t hear the jokes, but she saw the cold brows soften into a lazy smile.
The closest she’d ever stood was probably graduation photo day. She was tall among the girls, so she stood in the back row—just to his left.
The shutter clicked. That moment froze forever.
After that, they went their separate ways—each to their own battles and futures.
The last time she saw him at school, he’d come to collect his things.
She was on the third-floor corridor. He walked past below, probably leaving No.1 High for good.
“Classmate Xie.”
Someone called out.
A girl ran from the teaching building and stopped him. Nervous and shy, she said something.
The wind swallowed the words. Leaves rustled on the trees. She couldn’t hear, but she didn’t have to.
It was a confession. At the last moment before parting, the girl was gathering courage to say what she felt.
Maybe he turned her down. She watched the girl’s joy crumble into despair. After he left, the girl stood a long time, then burst into sobs. Her friends tried to soothe her, but she choked, “I liked him so long. I liked him since we were in the same middle school. It didn’t matter if he didn’t remember me, didn’t know me. I never expected an ending.”
“I knew we’d probably never meet again—that’s the only reason I dared say it. But… I still feel awful.”
“Why? Why do I have to like him so much when he doesn’t know anything? He doesn’t know how much courage it took me to speak today.”
“It’s not fair.”
Qin Sang’s chest ached. Bitterness crept up her throat.
Where was fairness in it?
A secret crush was always a one-woman play.
Her joy and her sadness began with him—but had nothing to do with him.
In love, the one who feels first is the one who loses.
She wouldn’t dare make that step. Couldn’t.
So in the end, she didn’t even get to say goodbye.
…
The car idled at the curb. Before she got in, Qin Sang took off the jacket. Her fingertips brushed its cool zipper. After a moment, she handed it back.
“Thank you—for the coat. And…”
She smiled. “Thank you for helping me get the promo film.”
Even if he said it wasn’t him, she knew that with where she stood now, she still couldn’t easily reach that kind of “official” resource.
Especially since, before they’d left the restaurant, while he was paying, Shen Yi had told her more.
He’d really loved *A Letter from Afar*. When they’d spoken, he couldn’t resist bringing it up.
“This might sound rude,” he’d said, “but I truly think the most irreplaceable role you’ve ever played is Yu Sibei in *A Letter from Afar*.”
“The hardest part of acting is making the fake real. Only when the actor truly enters the role can the audience follow.”
“I could tell…”
He’d paused, eyes bright behind his glasses. “You weren’t acting.”
“Sorry if I’m prying. I just felt that back then, there must have been someone you loved and couldn’t reach. That’s why you played it so deeply.”
When the player is moved, the watcher understands.
His insight had shaken her.
She hadn’t denied it. “Yes. Back then, I wasn’t playing Yu Sibei.”
“I was Yu Sibei.”
“I’m guessing,” Shen Yi said, “that your ‘Xu Jiashu’ in real life is Xie, isn’t he?”
She’d frozen, then given a bitter little smile.
“Only someone as good as he is would stick in your heart this long. If it’s Xie, I get it,” Shen Yi said.
“Honestly, you weren’t our first pick for the promo. My colleagues argued like crazy. We had a shortlist. You had the highest votes—but recent public opinion made things tricky.”
“They fought about it. Two of them nearly strangled each other.”
“I thought Chen Yan was a great choice,” one said. “Huge influence, good image—perfect male representative. Most importantly, spotless record. That fits our bar.”
Another woman bristled. “Male representative? Why are you gendering this?”
“How is that sexism?” he shot back. “And do you not know the gender ratio in aerospace?”
“Look at your pick,” he scoffed. “Is she reliable?”
“Sure, I’ll admit her acting is solid. She just won an award and she’s hot. But we’re not some no-name PR shop chasing heat.”
“You know what she used to be like—always on the trending list, rumors everywhere. You know her old scandals. The internet doesn’t forget. Google her and you’ll get a pile. And she just split from her old brand in a mess. Isn’t that practically what you’d call an ungrateful wolf?”
“What do you think we do here? Hire someone with a mountain of gossip and a ticking time bomb to front our film? If she crashes, everything we’ve done burns. What, you want the whole department to pay for your fangirling? Do you respect your job? The colleagues on the front line?”
“Fine, chase your star. But at least keep work and private separate, alright?”
He was sharp, full of mockery, not leaving room to reply.
The woman’s face went white. Her lips parted, then closed again. What he said was nasty and deeply personal.
Shen Yi had frowned, about to step in, when someone who’d watched silently the whole time finally spoke, voice cool.
“There are over a hundred million scientific workers in our country,” Xie said. “Over forty million are women—forty percent, higher than the global average. Science has no gender. It isn’t any one side’s battlefield. There’s no need to emphasize ‘male power’ with a label like that. Saying so erases women’s contributions.”
“If you respect your job as a media professional, you should know the basics—being fair, objective, and neutral. You need basic respect for every profession and every person. Only then will what you say carry weight.”
“Do you think you’ve done that?”
He’d only asked a question, but the male colleague had no counter. He coughed down his words with a dark face.
…
Shen Yi had still been surprised. “Honestly, I’ve never seen him speak up for anyone. You know what he’s like—distant. Too composed. He doesn’t meddle in others’ choices, doesn’t dabble in their lives. People who control distance that well are hard to approach. Even with me and Senior Zhou—we’ve known him for years and can’t say we’re ‘close.’”
“But that day was the first time, in all the years I’ve known him, that he came forward like that.”
Qin Sang had felt something was off, but hadn’t known there’d been that much back and forth behind the scenes.
She’d gone quiet for a long time.
“You’re really not going to tell him?” Shen Yi had asked. “You’ve liked him this long.”
She’d thought, then said softly, “Liking him is my own business. It doesn’t require his permission—or his answer. Whether he knows doesn’t matter.”
“If you could, please keep it to yourself? I…”
She’d lowered her lashes. “I don’t want to make myself that pitiful.”
Once her feelings were laid bare, she could no longer pretend to be composed. She wouldn’t be able to hide behind being “just classmates.”
Shen Yi had studied her a long time before nodding. “Don’t worry. It’s your privacy. I won’t talk.”
…
“If anything, I owe you,” she said now.
Because she spoke up for him, she’d offended Tong Junjie, who’d retaliated with his limited power and cost her an endorsement.
To her, that hadn’t been a big deal. Jewelry endorsements came and went.
She smoothed her mood and smiled. “Thank you for speaking for me. I know—you felt you owed me for that day. That’s why you helped get me the film. But I did it willingly. I don’t regret it. I hope you don’t feel guilty either.”
He was always like this—measured, unwilling to owe anyone. Human debts were hardest to repay.
But pity and guilt were the last things she wanted from him.
She took a breath and looked up. “You don’t owe me anything. Let’s… call it even.”
He stood before her, tall and spare. The streetlight’s faint glow painted him in pale ink—still cold and proud as ever, standing alone in the night, no one around but him. His figure was like a brushstroke in a landscape painting.
“What if,” he said, gaze gentle yet serious, “I said it wasn’t because I owed you?”