I don't understand why that fool always manages to get under my skin...
Is it because of my Long hair? Weird expressions? Some unspoken charm I don't have..or I've ? I don't know. And who does he always compare me with? That character… Lan-wa something? I can't even remember. My mind barely has room for such useless trivia.
Lately, though, the gossip has been unavoidable. People whisper about the new story Lè Lán keeps bringing up. They buy five copies of the novel, maybe more, and act as if it's some holy scripture. I… don't remember most of it. Not that it matters.
We all work here—twenty-two to thirty-five years old—at my father , Chén se's company, Yún Xǐ (云玺) — "Cloud Seal." The name sounds traditional, old-fashioned, but it wasn't my choice ( I've a feeling that it's inspired from any novel he reads )
. My father started this company barely twenty-two, fresh out of university, and I was born a year later. He's thirty-three now; I'm twenty-three. Young parents, young kid—yet I learned early that youth doesn't guarantee warmth or happiness.
My mother left him when his pockets were empty. Now he's single, though behind the smile I see the wound still raw. She remarried, had twins—one pair male, one pair female. She sometimes tries to contact me, but I don't respond. The pain runs too deep for small talk.
We have money now. Time. Options. But no nostalgic, cozy family memories. No small, happy moments where I felt I belonged. Just the hollow echo of what could have been.
And Lè Lán… twenty years old, sharp, irritatingly brilliant, almost a mirror of my father in demeanor. Because of that, he snagged a favored co-worker position here. My father and he bond over BL novels and pranks. Meanwhile, I… simply enjoy normal girl × boy stories. Dad calls me boring, half in jest, half in disappointment. He sees me as the opposite of himself—same face, opposite spirit.
No matter how often I complain about Lè Lán to him, Dad only drapes an arm around my shoulder, glass of wine in hand, and throws the same unanswerable question:
"You're a young man. Why don't you have some fun in life? Life's short. Don't waste it like this… look at me, I'm energetic even at my age while you're already like a mini-old man. Some people even think I'm your son, haha."
That same lecture happened today, after another annoying workday. I returned home—no, mansion—where Dad had spent silently, lavishly, proving something without words. His personal library smelled of polished wood and paper, filled with novels. BL, popular fantasies, and some that made me blush despite myself.
And there he was, reading the one Lè Lán constantly parrots at me. I don't remember its name, but I do remember the red-and-black-robed protagonist with a long ponytail—so like my father and Lè Lán in his sly, mischievous energy. Not fully, of course, but enough to feel a connection.
"Father, I have an objection ab—"
I hadn't finished when he looked up. His perching bluish-gray eyes met mine, long dark-blue hair falling loosely over his chest.
"Ah, I know, I know, my dear son. You don't have to tell me. This is the fifth month you complain about the same thing, and my answer hasn't changed."
He put the novel down, rising to his full, imposing height. Black-and-white silk shirt, loose and elegant, sleeves rolled above the elbows. His voice, dramatic, mischievous, smooth like silk, warned me: the lecture had begun, whether I liked it or not.
I braced myself. Dad's "fathery motivational speeches" were half cheerful, half infuriatingly manly, and always impossible to interrupt.
I shifted my weight on the polished floor, fingers brushing the spines of the nearest shelves. My thoughts drifted to Lè Lán again—how irritatingly clever he was, how easy it was for people to laugh at his antics while I silently scowled. The contrast between them and me… it always burned a little.
I sighed, tugged at a strand of my hair, and leaned against the library table. Dad's smile widened.
"Come now, my boy, why waste your days buried in annoyance? Learn to enjoy the ridiculous, the foolish, the… fun."
I narrowed my eyes, distant, bitter, but aware: some lessons aren't taught through words—they're observed, endured, and sometimes silently resisted.
I let him talk. For once, I let the storm pass over me without responding. Maybe that was my lesson today too: not every battle requires a fight. Some just require surviving in quiet defiance.