Chapter 30

*The Moon Runs to Me*
“Doctor Chen, I think I’m sick.”
Dr. Chen Wenping had worked in psychiatry for thirty years. She’d seen every kind of patient.
Most mental patients weren’t like regular ones. They didn’t believe they were sick. They resisted treatment, shut out the world.
She’d seen plenty like Qin Sang—people who thought very little of themselves and slid into loathing.
Yet Qin Sang was different too. When she walked in with her agent, she’d seemed calm, even smiling politely—obedient, well-mannered.
“I can’t sleep,” she’d said. “It’s like I’m locked in a cage. I can’t breathe. Every time I close my eyes, there are voices talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.”
She’d said it evenly, but her eyes had looked dead.
“I try to listen,” she’d gone on. “But something always stops me.”
Chen had listened in silence. The case was serious.
Because of who she was, the agent had briefed her ahead of time. She’d known the rough outline—of the insomnia, the nausea, the vomiting, the way she’d forced herself to eat in front of others only to throw it all up later, of how she’d smiled and said “I’m fine” no matter what happened.
If the phone hadn’t been left behind that one night, if the agent hadn’t gone back to the apartment and found the balcony door open and sandals on the threshold—with the girl standing on the rail in the wind—no one might ever have known.
The wind had billowed her pajamas, her thin body swaying like a paper figure. Her eyes had been hollow, as if she couldn’t hear anything at all.
The agent had nearly fainted. She’d crept forward, heart pounding, and dragged her down by sheer panic.
Qin had looked at her, dazed. “I wasn’t trying to die. I just wanted to hear what they were saying. Can’t you hear them, Sister Wen?”
The woman who’d always thought herself unshakable had broken down then.
“Sang-sang, you’re sick,” she’d choked.
Sick—and no one had seen it.
She’d hidden it too well. She cared too much about how others felt. No matter how much it hurt, she’d never shown more than a faint smile. “It’ll pass,” she’d always said. “I’m fine.”
No one had known she hadn’t slept in a long time. That she choked down food only to vomit later. That her hair fell out in handfuls. That she heard and saw things that weren’t there.
Maybe she hadn’t really wanted to die.
Maybe she’d just been too sick to find a path back.
“Doctor Chen,” she’d asked then, lost, “am I very bad now? Can I still get better?”
“Depression isn’t just a mood,” Chen had said gently. “It’s an illness. Illnesses need treatment, and they *can* be treated—as long as you don’t avoid it, don’t refuse help.”
“I want to get better,” Qin had said, solemn. “My mom’s not well. Xiao Yan and her grandma aren’t well. I’m the only one who can protect them. I can’t fall.”
She put everyone above herself—family, agent, assistants. Only she ranked herself last of all.
Patients like that—who seemed calm on the surface—were often more fragile than anyone knew.
Chen had done a full assessment. Qin’s sense of self-worth was extremely low. Faced with lies and slander, most people first got angry, then sad, and tried to fight back.
Qin had fled into a shell instead.
And when she hid, she hadn’t found safety, only more doubt—more questions about whether she really *was* that terrible. Her dislike for herself had fed on itself.
Chen’s professional opinion had been clear.
“Given her condition,” she’d told the agent, “I’d advise her not to continue in this job. Acting depends on recognition. Fame brings uncontrollable judgment. For someone like her, noise is poison. The harsher the voices outside, the more she’ll turn them inward.”
Qin had been her most cooperative patient—taking her meds on time, showing up for every follow-up, pausing work, fixing her sleep, exercising daily.
It still hadn’t been enough to free her.
Fighting depression was a long war.
For someone whose sense of self was so fragile, healing was even harder.
Qin had survived the storm of cyberbullying. She’d clawed her way out.
She’d thought she’d left it behind.
And now, years later, Dr. Chen’s phone lit up with her name again.
Qin curled in a corner, phone in hand. “Doctor Chen, I don’t think I’m okay.”
Chen’s heart sank. Severe cases were rarely “cured” in the simple sense. To live five functional years after was already a victory.
“What’s wrong? Something stressing you lately?” she asked.
Qin shook her head—then hesitated and nodded.
Chen softened her voice. “It’s alright. If you don’t mind, you can tell me. I’ll listen.”
“Doctor Chen, do you remember the little bear I told you about?”
“I remember. You said there was a teddy you loved and lost.”
“Mm. I think… I might have found it.”
Her lashes hung low. Her nails dug unconsciously at the skin around her fingers, hard enough to break the skin.
She looked very tense. And very helpless.
Chen saw the shape of it. “And… do you still like that little bear?”
Qin froze, eyes gone distant. After a long time, she nodded. “Yes. Very much.”
“Doctor Chen, am I useless?” she whispered. “It’s been so many years and I still can’t let go. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could face my past like a normal person. But I can’t. I’m really awful.”
She’d never really dared face those years. Even in treatment, even giving herself all the little affirmations Dr. Chen had taught her, she’d never truly looked.
Wen Minzhu’s public attack had ripped open a scar she’d taken five years to stitch together. She’d watched, powerless, as the ugly mark was laid bare again.
She’d worked herself ragged because she was afraid—afraid that if she stopped, she’d fall back into that pit.
After the exam, everyone else had been celebrating. They’d shared scores and future plans. Their group chat had buzzed with joy.
She hadn’t dared even open it.
Late at night in the cafe, she’d watched their messages float by on the screen—unread.
Who’d gotten into which school. Who was going abroad. Who’d finally shaken off three years of weight.
Her fingers had hovered over the keyboard. Then she’d locked the screen and gone back to wiping tables.
Later, at that last class gathering, she’d watched them laugh and bicker from behind the counter. She’d heard his mother’s voice screech from his phone. She’d watched his face go flat with exhaustion and anger.
In the end, all she could do was press a little yellow note to his cup.
“Wish you happiness every day ^ ^.”
The smallest, lightest blessing.
The only thing she’d had to offer.
“Why do you think you’re terrible, Sang-sang?” Dr. Chen asked softly.
Qin thought for a long time. “Because I’m useless. I can’t protect the people I want to protect. I can’t face the ugly parts of myself like other people seem to.”
“I just feel…”
“I’m not worthy.”
“Have you tried to fight for anything?” Dr. Chen asked.
She looked at Qin, voice steady. “Sang-sang, you should be braver.”
“Maybe…”
She paused, then smiled gently into the phone.
“Maybe it’s time to listen to what the little bear wants too.”