Chapter 15

The first time 孟頔 saw *Titanic* was in fifth grade, at a friend's house. That love story that swept the country had become an immortal classic; pirated tapes were as common as cold medicine in every home. In that little room that day, 孟頔 wasn't alone. Four boys from his class sat side by side on the floor, all blushing at the same time—at Winslet's pale, full body, at the foggy handprints on the car window. But by the end, they were all in tears, because love was moving and great.
On the way home, 孟頔 ran as fast as he could, but he couldn't outrun the hurt the ending had left.
Later, his mom was cleaning his room and found a drawing he'd tucked in a drawer—a sketch of a young, beautiful couple kneeling on a small plank in the ocean, holding each other tight, smiling, satisfied.
His mom asked what it was.
孟頔 said, "This is how I think *Titanic* should have ended."
"From that day on, I thought being able to paint was amazing. It was like having a stage for your imagination. Rewriting endings and scenes could be a creator's private privilege."
孟頔 rested his head on his hand and spoke slowly.
Chen Xian rolled to face him. "You make fanfiction sound so refined."
"Yeah, fanfiction." 孟頔 smiled and rolled onto his side too.
They lay face to face on the bed. He looked at her; she looked at him.
Chen Xian looked away first. She always had these impulsive moments—like inviting 孟頔 to join her "sleep all day" after the drawing was done. Yes, it was sudden, but they couldn't stay awake for a whole day and night, could they?
But when it actually happened, she was the one who felt more awkward.
She'd been torturing herself the whole time they'd been talking in bed.
She couldn't take it anymore. Chen Xian sat up with a start. "Can I turn off the lights?"
孟頔 sat up too. "Sure."
Chen Xian clicked them all off, not letting a single beam slip in.
Darkness fell like armor. She didn't have to face 孟頔 directly anymore. Chen Xian let out a breath and lay back down.
"Better, right?" she asked softly.
孟頔: "Yeah."
The thin blanket rustled. Chen Xian worked up the nerve and moved closer. 孟頔 seemed to sense it and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her completely against his chest.
Chen Xian's breathing got heavier at once.
Because the armor had become clouds and flower fields.
"How did you know…" She trailed off.
"If I didn't do this, it wouldn't feel right."
Chen Xian couldn't help laughing.
When the room went quiet again, Chen Xian found 孟頔's heartbeat. She wanted to be sure, pressed down a little with her fingers. 孟頔's arms tightened at once. His breath came to the space between her ear and her neck—a hidden, restrained kind of expression.
Chen Xian was ticklish all over, inside and out.
"Your heart's beating so fast." Her palm stayed there.
"Yeah." 孟頔's answer was muffled.
Chen Xian lifted her head. Her lashes brushed his chin, then his lips. She pecked him.
The boy paused, then didn't hesitate—he lowered his head and found her mouth.
Physical hunger was instinct; the hunger in desire was instinct too. Kissing was the feeding, drawing deep from each other.
Chen Xian's thoughts grew hot and scattered. All she knew was touch. 孟頔's chin was smooth, his lips and tongue were smooth. Maybe he'd showered carefully and shaved before coming. Even the skin on his back that showed when they tangled was like a peeled egg—nothing rough existed on his body. He was perfect, like a dream.
…
They stopped just before they suffocated.
Chen Xian laughed at the wrong moment, loud. 孟頔 didn't ask why; he just laughed too. In the end they were both laughing on the bed, tangled together.
What should have happened, happened. What shouldn't have happened, didn't.
She slept in his arms all night, until the sun was high.
The last day. An ordinary day, the kind that happens for countless couples living together: takeout at noon, a movie in the afternoon, a walk in the evening to take out the trash.
So plain, so natural.
On the way back, Chen Xian "released" the flower balloon. Watching it drift toward the moon, she squeezed 孟頔's hand. "Where do you think it'll go?"
"What do you want?" 孟頔 asked.
"Beijing," Chen Xian said without thinking, sighing in the night. "Let it go to Beijing for me."
She looked back at 孟頔. "See what you're doing."
孟頔's mouth curved. "If you want to see me, just video call."
Chen Xian's lashes lowered. "No."
"Why?"
Why.
Chen Xian couldn't answer. In middle school, she'd fallen in love at first sight with an expensive music box in a gift shop—one that made it snow. After that, she'd looked forward to New Year's, to Spring Festival. When she'd finally run into the mall with her New Year's money, the music box on the shelf had been replaced. When she couldn't be sure she'd be able to have something the moment she wanted it, she wouldn't linger by the window, to avoid that same pain.
Chen Xian's train was the next evening. Around four, she wheeled her suitcase out the door.
Passing 孟頔's room, she paused for a few seconds. No sound from inside. From start to finish, this boy hadn't fought or begged. He'd respected every choice, every wish. WeChat was quiet; the hallway was quiet. Even his goodbye was gentle. Chen Xian bought a bottle of water at the shop by the door. The owner asked what brand. She paused, then said: "Nongfu Spring."
Scorching golden sunlight spread everywhere.
Every day in Jiangcheng had been good weather. Evenings were like daytime; nights were as passionate as love songs.
After checking in and boarding, Chen Xian walked down the aisle, looking at the faces on either side—men and women, old and young, standing or sitting, laughing or quiet, all these ordinary faces—and felt like she was in a dream.
Only when she sat in the window seat did reality sink in.
Chen Xian looked down and opened WeChat, stopping at her chat with 孟頔. No new messages. The conversation from the night before was still there:
Then come see me.
Now?
Now.
The story seemed to pause there.
Perfect, and also empty.
Chen Xian's nose clogged up. She pressed her backpack to her chest.
The train started moving, slowly leaving the platform.
Outside the window, the view changed from white overpasses to green fields and silver lakes. The clouds took on color—a signal that the sun was about to say goodbye.
"Sunset."
"From now on, every sunset will make me think of you."
Chen Xian remembered those words at once, remembered 孟頔. She didn't care whether 孟頔 would think of her at the same moment, whether his heart would ache like hers. That didn't matter to her. Instead, the image of "sunset" had truly become 孟頔's essence in her heart. He was the one like sunset—so gentle, so brilliant.
Chen Xian pulled the sketchbook from her backpack, wanted to look through it, but closed it immediately. She was afraid tears would drip onto it, would bleed through and wash away the page's own radiance.
Chen Xian didn't give herself much time to vent with tears.
She quickly wiped her eyes dry.
If you choose to end, you have to bear the pain of ending; if you choose sunset, you have to bear the dark night that's coming.
Chen Xian took a deep breath, put the sketchbook away, and was about to turn off her phone and rest her eyes when a WeChat message suddenly popped up.
She hurried to open it.
Chen Xian's pupils tightened. 孟頔 had sent her a location—at Jiangcheng Railway Station.
She almost stood up from her seat, quickly typing back: You came here? I'm already on the train.
And the train had already left.
"Don't come to see me off…" She kept typing, thinking he'd come for nothing, and her heart began to feel a slight tearing sensation.
But 孟頔's message had already arrived before hers: Just left the station?
Chen Xian froze, deleted what she'd just typed, and answered: Yes.
孟頔: Perfect.
Then: I'm on the train, same one as you.
This time, Chen Xian really sprang up, almost hitting her head on the luggage rack above.
She couldn't believe it, but she didn't doubt it at all. Worry and hesitation vanished in an instant. She just wanted to ask 孟頔, Where are you?
孟頔 said: Where are you?
Chen Xian took out her ticket, looked at it, and sent him a photo.
孟頔 said: I'm in car 6. I'll come find you.
Chen Xian's heart rate spiked. Saying "excuse me," she urgently got out of her seat and rushed toward 孟頔.
The train car at dusk was like a gallery—orange, blue, rose, purple. Every window painting was different, flashing past her side.
At the junction between two cars, she saw 孟頔.
They both stopped. They both laughed.
Passengers in the front looked at them, not understanding what was happening, but feeling happy because of this excited couple looking at each other.
Chen Xian rubbed her sore nose and quickly walked over to him. "I mean…" She stopped in front of him. "How did you know my train number and time?"
She hadn't asked anything.
孟頔's eyes flickered. The afterglow made one side of his face glow pink: "I took a chance."
Chen Xian tilted her head away, not looking at him. She didn't believe it.
孟頔 answered seriously then: "How could Chen Xian miss this sunset?"
Hearing the answer, Chen Xian's eyes went completely red. She didn't want 孟頔 to see her moved to the point of losing composure. She turned to look out the window. The sky right then was like orange lake water; clouds and light, layered and rippling, gentle as poetry. When she looked back at 孟頔, her lips parted slightly. There were ten thousand words in her heart, but she couldn't say a single one. Finally, she let out a helpless sob and opened her arms: "Hug me."
孟頔 didn't hesitate to pull her into his embrace.
Like their first hug. Like every hug.
Chen Xian closed her eyes, satisfied. In that moment, it seemed like a music box melody was playing in her ears. Beautiful things would fade, but they would also return. She was no longer afraid, no longer conflicted. She wouldn't be complacent, wouldn't feel indebted. Sunset was right beside her. All of her, everything, could be forgiven and melted.
—
Before sunset, Chen Xian left Jiangcheng.
Two people.
[The End]