Chapter 25

*The Moon Runs to Me*
“Little Bear.”
-
Xie Yuncheng had always been a man of boundaries. He knew etiquette, understood propriety, and never overstepped. People said he was indifferent—to people, to feelings. Being around him was like standing in mist—nothing to hold on to. When the fog finally cleared, you didn’t know whether you’d been standing on steps up to the sky or at the edge of a cliff.
Right now, Qin Sang felt like she was on that cliff’s edge, swaying. She knew that if she stepped wrong, there might only be a bottomless drop.
And yet she was like a moth to flame—knowing the danger and still flying closer, unable to help herself.
She stood frozen, mind lagging as if a wire were missing. Panic churned with a faint happiness; she couldn’t tell which was stronger.
The world around her seemed to dissolve. The deep autumn night went empty and vast. He simply looked at her—quietly, steadily.
His eyes no longer seemed aloof. They were like a still, dark pool—enough to drown in.
She was that drowning person—breath catching, heart pounding. Instinctively, she stepped back.
She wanted to run. Desperately.
She dropped her gaze, wanting to hide.
She wanted to shut her eyes, cover her ears—pretend nothing could reach her, nothing could hook her soul away.
In those three years, she’d had many dreams about him. But never once had they crossed a line. However absurd the dream, she’d never dared imagine any kind of “ending” for them.
…
Silence stretched. Her eyes stung; a bitter feeling spread like a spiderweb, tangling her until she felt wrapped in a cocoon.
She drew a breath, struggling to steady herself.
Her thoughts were a mess, but she forced herself to speak. Her voice trembled. “Classmate Xie, you shouldn’t say things like that. It’s… easy to misunderstand.”
She must look terrible right now—flustered and panicked. Afraid he’d see through the shabby secret hidden in her heart; secretly thrilled by his half-spoken words.
His brows creased faintly; his gaze sank. “Sorry. I made you uncomfortable.”
She kept her head low, refusing to meet his eyes. “My place is just ahead. You don’t have to walk me any farther.”
Then she fled, steps quick and messy—as if any slower and the abyss would drag her back.
…
Back in her room, she burrowed under the blanket and refused to answer anything Wen Shuyu asked.
Her mother knocked and came in. Seeing her curled in the quilt, she paused. “Sang-sang, what’s wrong?”
It was a long time before Qin Sang muttered, “Nothing.”
Wen Shuyu sat on the edge of the bed, smiling. “Still the same as when you were little. One thing goes wrong and you hide. Remember that New Year at your aunt’s? She nagged you, and when we got home you buried yourself in the blanket. Your dad and I coaxed you for ages and you still wouldn’t come out.”
Qin finally poked her head out. Her eyes were red; even her voice was hoarse. “Aunt went too far. She said I had no upbringing—that I was a little beggar. That Dad was useless, living off you. She said we were all leeches, sucking your parents’ blood.”
Wen Shuyu stayed patient. “And were you?”
She shook her head. “I just hate her. She always looks down on us. We never relied on Grandpa and Grandma. Even if…”
Even if life had been hard and money tight, they’d never held out their hands to the Wens.
“Then there you have it,” her mother said, still gentle. “What other people say doesn’t matter. What matters is that *you* know who you are.”
“The important thing isn’t what they say—it’s what you think.”
Her mother had always been like this. No matter how naughty she’d been as a child, no matter what she’d done, Wen Shuyu had never truly been angry—only endlessly tolerant.
“Now,” Wen Shuyu said softly. “Will you tell Mom what’s wrong?”
Qin Sang’s nose burned. After a long time, she mumbled, “Mom, do you remember the teddy bear I liked when I was little?”
“Of course.” Wen Shuyu laughed. “The first time you and Penny fought, it was over that bear.”
Back then, she’d stayed with the Wens for a while while her parents worked. Aunt Minzhu and Cousin Penny were there too.
Minzhu had never looked kindly on her—or on her parents. She and Penny had the second floor. Qin slept downstairs with the nanny.
Even living under one roof, they rarely met. When Aunt and Penny did eat at home, they never shared a table with her. She and the nanny ate in the kitchen.
Luckily, the nanny had been kind. She often cooked a little extra just for Qin. Life in the Wen house hadn’t been happy, but with the nanny there, Qin had felt she still had something to hold on to.
Her parents always said: be content.
So even though she’d disliked Aunt and Penny, she’d still liked living at the Wens—liked the nanny, liked the little swing in the back garden, liked standing under the glass dome to look at the stars.
The universe was endless; the sky was full of flowing light. She was just a speck of dust, a drop in the ocean.
Like that plain brown teddy bear—the gift Uncle had brought back from England. He’d told his two nieces to choose one thing each. Penny had picked the gorgeous Barbie dream house. Qin had picked the bear.
It was a dull brown, nothing eye-catching about it—but she loved it. She washed it, brushed it, took it everywhere. At meals, at bedtime, even when she did her homework, the bear was always beside her.
She still remembered how it looked: brown fur, black bead eyes, nothing special except for the little red tie at its neck.
It was the one thing that belonged to her alone.
Until one day, Penny got bored with her own toys. She saw Qin hugging the bear on the sofa and strutted over.
“I want that bear.”
Qin refused. Penny grabbed for it, shouting, “It’s mine. Mom said everything in this house is mine. This is my home. Uncle is *my* uncle. Gifts from him are mine.”
“You’re a thief. What right do you have to hug *my* things?”
“I’m not a thief. The bear is mine.”
Penny was three years older—seven to Qin’s four. She yanked and pinched. Qin clung to the bear, arms bruised purple and blue, skin broken, and still wouldn’t let go.
In the struggle, the bear tore. Stuffing spilled out. Penny burst into loud sobs. “You broke my bear!”
Four-year-old Qin stood there, clutching the ruined toy, too scared to cry aloud.
It had been *hers*. She’d chosen it. She’d treasured it. And now it was broken.
Minzhu had rushed in at the noise. When she heard what had “happened,” she’d cursed without restraint.
“No manners at all. Think you’re a princess now? Living in my house, eating my food, and still snatching my daughter’s toys? Filthy little beggar from a gutter nest—just like your father. He lives off your mom, you steal. Don’t you know what you are? How dare you reach for anything? How dare you grab?”
She’d shoved Qin hard. The girl had stumbled onto the sofa and the bear had finally been ripped away.
Penny hadn’t really wanted the bear. She’d just wanted what she didn’t have. Once she had it, it bored her quickly. It was broken anyway. She tossed it aside.
She had a whole room of toys. Her favorite had always been the Barbie dream house.
Qin’s bear was gone. She never even found out where Penny eventually threw it.
When Uncle returned and heard they’d fought, he’d ordered another bear from abroad. Same model.
But it wasn’t the same. *Her* bear was gone.
There’d never again be a bear she cared for with that much love.
After that…
She’d never dared covet what wasn’t hers.
The bear was like that. So was Xie Yuncheng.
She’d walked alone through the years so long she’d nearly forgotten where she was going—or where she’d started.
She’d forgotten where the finish line was too.
Like that jar of paper stars she’d never managed to give away. During those bleak, lightless days, it had been her only comfort. All her unspoken love, all her wordless wishes, had turned into little dull stars—sealed up in glass.
Seen by no one. Wanted by no one.
…
And then one day, the dream she’d buried deepest was dragged into the light.
Panic. Helplessness. Terrified, she’d done the only thing she knew—run.
She scrubbed at her eyes. They reddened under her fingers, lids burning. At last, the tears spilled over.
She couldn’t hold back the sounds anymore. They were muffled, just like when she’d been four—afraid to wail aloud, her voice dull and shaking.
“It’s like I finally found my little bear again,” she choked.
Her thoughts tangled. That bear Penny had tossed away had never healed over. It had stayed as a scar inside her.
Now, at twenty-six, she no longer dared hope for that bear back. However long she’d looked forward, however much she loved, she couldn’t say it.
“But I don’t dare want it anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t dare hope for that bear again.”