In the city, he tried.
They walked shoulder to shoulder through the neon-lit corridors of the night markets, their bodies brushing occasionally, laughter rising like steam from vendor stalls. The streets smelled of sizzling scallion pancakes, malt sugar, roasted duck hanging behind foggy windows. Red lanterns swung overhead, casting pools of warmth onto rain-slick pavement. Jianyu twirled in an open blouse of silver thread that shimmered with each movement, a quiet rebellion worn like silk armor. His hair had grown longer and he let it fall loose, catching the city's light like spun ink.
Luli dragged them from street stalls to shadowy bars where queers danced beneath kaleidoscope lights. There, under rainbow spotlights and mirrored ceilings, people moved like wind through bamboo—graceful, free, unruly. Women with shaved heads kissed in corners. Men with painted eyes leaned into each other like soft waves. Bodies blurred, beautiful in defiance, each step a prayer against confinement.
Jianyu laughed with strangers, fingers brushing over cymbals, hips swaying to the bass like silk caught in wind. Luli danced with her arms thrown open, mouth open in silent song, her blade tucked away, but her eyes still sharp.
He watched them from the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, heart pounding to a rhythm he couldn't follow. He smiled. He laughed. He drank their drinks—sweet plum wine, bitter green tea laced with baijiu. He let himself be painted in their joy. But inside, something trembled. He felt like driftwood caught in a current he didn't choose, being pulled forward with no place to anchor.
They curled beside him at night in the rented room above a noodle shop, their limbs tangled like threads of silk. The ceiling fan above turned in slow, hypnotic circles, humming like an old lullaby. He lay still between them, feeling their warmth, listening to the city pulse outside the window—horns, scooters, the occasional shout or song echoing through alleyways.
And yet he could not sleep.
Seven days passed like this. Each one beautiful. Each one unbearable in its own way.
On the eighth morning, before the sun bled over the rooftops, he slipped quietly from their shared bed. He folded the borrowed blanket, brushed a loose strand of hair from Jianyu's brow, and kissed the space near Luli's temple—so lightly it might have been a breath.
On torn paper, he left a note, scribbled in calligraphy ink still wet from last night's poetry:
"Thank you for reminding me I wasn't made wrong. But I can only breathe by the river."
And with that, he was gone.
The city did not chase him.
He returned to the forest with the silence of a ghost reclaiming its altar.
For a while, he did nothing. Just listened—to the wind through pine needles, the river pressing gently against stone, the hawks crying overhead. He sat beneath the peach tree, still blooming out of season as if it knew he had come back.
Then, slowly, he began to build again.
But this time, it was different.
He expanded the cabin—first one extra room, then another, each shaped with the same care and reverence he had poured into the original. He worked with cedar and earth, woven straw and river stones. He didn't rush. The walls rose like promises, quiet and solid. He carved new mugs for tea, the glaze catching light like moonwater. He set out cushions beneath the windows, stitched with lotus patterns. He placed candles in niches, and on each new doorway, he hung fresh red talismans, their ink dark and deliberate. Just in case. Just in hope.
No one drank the tea yet. But he made it anyway.
Six months passed. Seasons circled back on themselves. The ginkgo trees turned gold again, and the air filled with the scent of roasted yams, of dried persimmons and woodsmoke. The river grew colder, its current slower. The world had returned to stillness.
And then, one autumn evening, as the sky darkened into velvet and the first stars blinked awake, he heard footsteps—real ones, not imagined or dreamt. Crisp against fallen leaves. Familiar.
Then a voice, hoarse and tired but unmistakably Jianyu's, cracked through the trees.
"You really left without saying goodbye, huh?"
The man by the river froze in place. His hands trembled, the clay bowl he had been shaping forgotten in his lap. He stood, heart thudding against his ribs like a festival drum.
Before he could speak, Luli emerged from the shadows, her boots kicking up leaves. Her eyes were wild, shining with both anger and relief. "You disappeared!"
And then she ran to him.
Without words, he opened his arms, and they came in—both of them—without hesitation. They clung to him, all breath and bone and forgiveness, and the trees around them swayed in approval.
That night, they sat under the stars, a small fire crackling in the hearth again. The cabin's new walls seemed to glow in the firelight, not because they were finished, but because they were ready. Three mugs of tea steamed on the low table.
Jianyu broke the silence first. "People keep assuming we're a couple," he muttered, rubbing at the side of his neck. "But we don't even know what we are."
Luli chuckled, chin resting on her palm. "We're not lovers," she said. "Not like that."
Jianyu added, "But we love each other."
"And we love you," Luli said softly, eyes searching his.
The man looked down at the cup between his hands. The tea was dark, fragrant with osmanthus and something older—like earth after rain.
There was no name for what they were. No tradition for it. No ritual, no red envelope, no incense script. Just the quiet truth of hearts choosing to stay close.
"What if we just… stay here again?" Jianyu asked, his voice tentative. "Part-time in the city. Part-time by the river. But always with you."
No contract. No demands. Just an offering.
That night, when the fire had dimmed and crickets hummed through the dark, the three of them climbed into bed. No explanations. No titles.
Just warmth.
Luli lay against his right side, her forehead pressed gently to his shoulder. Jianyu curled along his back, his arm draped protectively across his waist. The bed was barely wide enough, but no one minded. Their breath rose and fell together, slow and steady.
He didn't cry.
But in the quiet, something inside him cracked open, like kiln-fired clay revealing the soft hollow meant for holding.
He didn't need to understand it. He didn't need to explain it. There were no words for what they were.
But they were enough.
And in the dark hush of his rebuilt home, wrapped in a love that asked no questions, the man by the river finally slept.