Ji Cheng dashed off some half-hearted excuses to fob him off, then dismissed Su Tang’s replies with a curt “my mistake.” With that, he lost all interest, set the phone aside, closed his eyes, and began pondering how to squeeze every last drop of utility from Su Tang before kicking him to the curb.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the soft clink of the fruit platter being set on the coffee table.
Seeing Ji Cheng with his eyes closed in repose, Cheng Yan froze awkwardly in place, suddenly feeling even worse about his earlier behavior.
The guy was clearly exhausted, and here I was, ungratefully turning down his offer to help with the ointment.
The more Cheng Yan thought about it, the guiltier he felt. He tiptoed into the bedroom, fetched a light blanket, and gently draped it over Ji Cheng. But the moment the soft fabric brushed Ji Cheng’s body, his eyes snapped open without warning.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought you’d fallen asleep… Didn’t want you catching a chill.”
Cheng Yan offered a quiet explanation, but Ji Cheng, utterly exasperated, pointed out the flaw in his whimsical logic. “Cheng Yan, no one falls asleep on someone else’s sofa that quickly.”
Cheng Yan coughed lightly in embarrassed fury. To cover his foolishness, he gripped the blanket with sudden force and swaddled Ji Cheng roughly. For the first time treated so unceremoniously, Ji Cheng’s face betrayed unmasked astonishment. Seeing that expression, Cheng Yan paused—then couldn’t hold back a grin, his eyes crinkling as he burst into laughter.
Ji Cheng: …
Utterly speechless, he pinched the edge of the blanket and started to rise, ready to take his leave. But then Cheng Yan turned, picked up the guitar resting against the sofa, sat casually in a chair, strummed the strings, and tuned it.
Cheng Yan’s slender fingertips pressed the strings as he looked up again, smiling at Ji Cheng. “I don’t know if that bit about Vertex Audio producing an album for me was just offhand or serious, but let’s treat it as a joke for now. I can’t let you bandage my wounds and then go work for me on top of that… That’d be too much.”
“Seriously, thanks for caring about my health. Since Mom and Dad passed, it’s been ages since I felt this way. Though thinking about it, it’s only been a few years…”
The words came out unexpectedly sentimental. Cheng Yan trailed off, finding it odd.
Ji Cheng’s expression hadn’t changed much, but Cheng Yan felt embarrassed first. After a couple more sentences, his voice grew mumbled. His fingers plucked a random note, and he abruptly changed the subject with awkward stiffness.
“The album thing was a joke, but I’m actually pretty decent at guitar. A melody just popped into my head—maybe because of you, thanks—so… I’ll throw some lyrics on it and play for you now.”
Ji Cheng neither approved nor objected, so Cheng Yan seized the moment, took a shallow breath, and strummed the strings.
When he sang, his pitch dipped low, but his voice retained that youthful clarity. In the simplest style, he strummed and sang a light, pleasant melody.
“Are we almost there?
Just one step away?
Just a little more to say.
One honest word short.
But the words get lost between the lines,
They hover on the tip of my tongue,
Like the sunset in your eyes.
Fading in the dusk of your gaze.
Side by side, the world feels slow,
Shoulder to shoulder, time drags on,
Like a song we used to know.
Like a tune we once knew by heart.
If I reach for your hand, would you pull away?
If I reach out, will you draw back?
Or let it linger half a day?
Or let our fingertips linger awhile?
Are we almost there?
Just one step away?
Just a little more to say.
One honest word short.”
The lyrics and melody were improvised on the spot, so they stumbled here and there. Sometimes he’d pause to switch chords or tweak the key, fumbling for half a beat or so.
Even so, it couldn’t hide his musical talent. Even Ji Cheng, who knew little of pop music, found himself unable to ignore Cheng Yan’s skill after listening with downcast eyes for a while.
The Vertex Audio album talk had been pure flimflam from Ji Cheng earlier. He always built escape clauses into written contracts, let alone empty promises to a kid like Cheng Yan, easily brushed aside.
But hearing this song, he suddenly thought, Maybe I really could produce an album for Cheng Yan.
With his manager’s keen instincts, he could bet on it: without external meddling, Cheng Yan would make it big.
A gentle ballad was the simplest way to unwind, and Cheng Yan’s gaze and voice carried an extra-soft huskiness. Listening quietly, Ji Cheng actually felt a wave of fatigue, the urge to rest right then.
He didn’t want that lax feeling. He pressed his brow and heard Cheng Yan murmur during a pause, “They say you’re the ace manager… Why do I feel like you’re busy every second? Do you have to push yourself this hard?”
Ji Cheng fell silent for a moment, then let out a light, airy laugh. “For the money, obviously.”
“Can’t you tell? I love money.”
With that, he finally shook off the mellow mood.
He lowered his hand, stood, and spoke to Cheng Yan with rare gentleness. “The song’s good. Give it a name. I’ll evaluate the album idea professionally. Hope you can make me some cash. Goodbye.”
Ji Cheng skipped polite farewells like “see you,” because he hoped there wouldn’t be a next time.
Spending too much time with idiots made you dangerously lazy—lazy enough to just flop on the sofa, listen to tunes, and nap. Ji Cheng refused to sink that low, so he cut ties cleanly. The favor repaid, no need for further entanglement with Cheng Yan.
But Cheng Yan seemed utterly oblivious, as if he didn’t speak human. He stowed the guitar, cheerfully saw Ji Cheng to the door. Despite Ji Cheng’s repeated protests that it wasn’t necessary, Cheng Yan leaned on the doorframe, waving enthusiastically. He pressed his hands to his lips, eyes sparkling, and called out:
“Alright, Brother Cheng! Your fingerprint unlocks the door anytime, so come listen to me play whenever. Thanks for being my audience—see you next time!”
Ji Cheng thought, Why hasn’t this guy gotten it? There won’t be a next time. I’m too busy for you.
Frowning in irritation, he left Cheng Yan behind. But after two steps, his phone dinged with a transfer notification.
[Account ending in 3579 has received a transfer of ¥8,888. Sender: Cheng Yan. Memo: VIP ticket for next concert. PS: I’ll work hard to become a great artist—don’t worry!]
Ji Cheng stared at the message for a moment, sighing soundlessly. Cheng Yan was inexplicable.
Who prepaid concert tickets like this?
Still, for the money’s sake, Ji Cheng thought, I’ll put up with him a bit longer.
And in the days that followed, that “bit longer” stretched into many times over.
His account filled with transfers memoed as “concert tickets,” odd amounts here and there. On quiet late nights unknown to others, Cheng Yan would open the door to welcome him, eagerly sharing newly discovered instant noodle flavors before playing countless catchy songs—or ones worth a gentle ribbing.
By day, they had no contact—no texts, no meetups. Su Tang’s messes might even spark conflicts now and then.
But those moments belonged to them alone, apart from Su Tang or anyone else. Ji Cheng’s packed schedule finally gained breathing room for rest, and Cheng Yan gained his sole listener.
Though Ji Cheng never mentioned that album again.
By then, Cheng Yan was already caught in the whirlpool of being shunned by his fans and ostracized by Su Tang. Even straightforward PR efforts and opinion-shaping couldn’t sway things in Su Tang’s eyes, and Vertex Audio had no interest in partnering with a scandal-tainted artist. Cheng Yan knew he might never grace a bigger stage again. But he stubbornly kept inviting Ji Cheng to hear his songs, holding out hope that someday others might listen to them too.
Life stumbled on like that until the day of Cheng Yan’s nineteenth birthday.
That transfer of 54,279.68 yuan was no longer just a late-night invitation from Cheng Yan to meet up. It was his entire savings—a stark declaration to Ji Cheng of Cheng Yan’s death.
No more transfers labeled “concert ticket” would ever pop up in Ji Cheng’s phone notifications again.
After tying up all the mess Cheng Yan had left behind, Ji Cheng stood outside the police station and smoked an entire cigarette. He efficiently replayed their whole history in his mind.
As he descended the steps, fragments of Cheng Yan that he’d never bothered to commit to memory surfaced unbidden.
Cheng Yan, blurting out that liking and love really existed. Cheng Yan, plopping down on the ground and drawing out his voice in awe: “Wow, Ji Cheng, how are you so good?” Cheng Yan, who during their fights would pitifully send money over and over, each transfer note pleading, “Sorry, I really know I was wrong—forgive me for the sake of the cash.” And Cheng Yan on that rainy night, grabbing his hand out of nowhere and saying, “Ji Cheng, don’t like Su Tang anymore.”
Why not?
Ji Cheng had shot back like that, not denying the unspoken truth in his words. But even Cheng Yan couldn’t pin down the answer. Was it jealousy, because Su Tang liked Ji Cheng more? No way—he didn’t hate Ji Cheng anymore, after all.
So what was he trying to say?
Cheng Yan had felt the answer hovering right there on the tip of his tongue, but it wouldn’t come out. In the end, he simply let go, dazed, and murmured, “Sorry, Ji Cheng. I don’t know either. Really, I’m sorry.”
Those memories ebbed and flowed in Ji Cheng’s mind. But when he finally flicked the spent cigarette butt into the trash bin, all he could think was that it felt a little regrettable.
That album, the one that should have been produced by Vertex Audio—Ji Cheng had pulled some strings to get it ready. He’d rarely kept his word like that, so he’d indulged in the whim this once. But even so, it had gone unrealized.
Then he walked slowly into the cold, dew-laden night, never once looking back.
