The next morning, the world woke up to two things: endless gossip about Tessa's wine-splash spectacle and the re-release of Jiang Yue's poetry collection, To Love, To Lose, To Heal.
The former flooded social media with memes, hashtags, and dramatic retellings. ("Did you SEE the splash? That man looked like a modern art project!") The latter, however, made headlines in every literary and cultural column.
By noon, Jiang Yue's publisher sent her a message she had to reread three times to believe.
< Congratulations! Your collection has re-entered the charts at #1 in multiple regions. Within hours, pre-orders exceeded projections by 300%.
She stared at the screen, her heart thudding.
"Yue!" Tessa stormed into her apartment, waving her phone. "Do you even realize what's happening?! You dethroned a billionaire's autobiography in less than six hours. SIX. HOURS. You're a legend!"
Jiang Yue managed a weak smile. "That's… good."
"Good?" Tessa gawked. "It's historic! And after last night? Girl, you and I are single handedly keeping the internet alive."
But as Tessa rambled, Jiang Yue's chest grew tighter, not lighter. Each word of praise felt like a weight pressing down. Her book was soaring again, yes, but what if it wasn't really her? What if she was just riding on luck? On the system's strange interventions?
When Tessa finally left for an emergency brunch with her mother, Jiang Yue collapsed onto the sofa, her phone slipping from her hand. The room felt too quiet, too heavy.
Her breathing quickened.
Her thoughts spiraled.
What if they're all wrong about me? What if the poems weren't good enough, and it was just timing, hype, algorithms? What if I can't write anything else that matters?
Her hands shook. She pressed them against her face, but the tears came anyway, hot and sudden.
By evening, her eyes were swollen, her chest raw from sobbing. She tried to breathe, but each inhale hitched, shallow and jagged.
And that was when the knock came.
She didn't move. She couldn't. But the door opened anyway, a quiet creak, followed by the familiar, steady sound of footsteps.
"Yue."
Her head jerked up. Li Zhenkai stood in the doorway, suit jacket discarded, tie loosened, his sharp presence dimmed by something gentler. He took one look at her, tear-streaked and trembling, a mess and didn't hesitate.
He crossed the room, knelt in front of the sofa, and placed a hand on her clenched fists. "Breathe. Slowly."
She tried, but the sobs tangled with her words. "I—can't—it's—too much—"
His eyes softened, though his tone remained firm. "You can. With me."
When she shook her head, he reached for something on the coffee table, her book. The copy her publisher had sent, its fresh cover gleaming. He opened it with calm precision, flipping to a page he seemed to choose at random.
And then, in that deep, steady voice of his, he read.
> "To heal is not to erase the scar,
But to learn how to trace it without bleeding.
To speak its story without breaking.
To see the mirror and still say: this is me."
The words, her words, sounded different in his mouth. Like he was engraving them into her, one by one, anchoring her to herself.
Her breath hitched. Tears blurred her vision, but this time they came softer, gentler. She curled her knees to her chest, listening.
He turned the page, reading another.
> "I was not made of glass.
I shattered, yes.
But even in fragments, I learned how to shine."
By the time he closed the book, her breathing had steadied. The storm inside her quieted, not gone, but no longer consuming.
"You wrote these," he said simply, meeting her gaze. "No one else. Not luck. Not algorithms. You."
Her voice was small, almost childlike. "But what if it's not enough next time? What if I can't do it again?"
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he reached up, brushing away a stray tear with the back of his hand.
"Then you'll fail," he said calmly.
She blinked, startled.
"And after that," he continued, "you'll try again. And again. Because you're not someone who stops. I've seen you."
Her throat tightened.
"You think you're an imposter," he said quietly, "but imposters don't write words that heal strangers across the world. They don't pour their soul into ink until people thousands of miles away cry because they feel seen. You're not pretending, Yue. You're living. And it terrifies you because it's real."
She covered her mouth, the sob that escaped breaking into a laugh halfway. "Why are you… why are you so good at this?"
His lips curved, just slightly. "Because someone has to remind you when you forget."
Silence stretched, warm and fragile. The room smelled faintly of paper and the cologne clinging to his shirt. His hand was still on hers, steady and grounding.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice raw.
He tilted his head, eyes lingering on her tear stained cheeks. "Next time, call me before you drown."
Something fluttered in her chest. Dangerous, exhilarating.
"I'll try," she whispered back.