The city of Guangjing at night was never quiet.
Billboards burned with light, streets carried rivers of cars, and fans clustered outside the gates of the studio holding glowsticks with his name on them: Xu Wei Ran.
Inside the set, cameras rolled, directors shouted, stylists hurried about. In front of all that chaos, Wei Ran stood calm in a tailored black suit, posture straight, expression faintly distant. The director clapped.
"Cut! Perfect. Mr. Xu, your eyes are exactly right. Cold but fragile. You are born for this role."
Applause broke out. Assistants rushed forward to drape a coat over his shoulders, photographers raised their phones for quick snaps. Wei Ran only gave a light nod. To the world, he was untouchable—every inch a star.
But under the blinding light, his heart was made of quiet rain.
After filming ended, he returned to his dressing room.
The sudden silence pressed against his ears. He removed his coat, loosened his tie, and sat at the vanity. The reflection in the mirror looked sharp, flawless—the idol adored by millions.
But Wei Ran didn't look at the mirror.
He looked at his phone.
There were endless unread messages: scripts from his manager, dinner invitations from directors, congratulations from fellow actors. But his thumb scrolled past all of them, straight to the top of the pinned chat.
Lin Qing Yun.
The chat window was filled with his words, and only his. Four years of them. Messages written in hotel rooms across the world, on film sets, on sleepless nights. Some were long, filled with updates about his day. Others were short—just "Did you eat?" "Are you okay?" "I miss you."
All unanswered.
The last one, a month ago:
"I'll be back soon. Will you let me see you?"
He stared at it until his vision blurred.
A knock at the door broke the silence. His assistant poked his head in. "Wei Ran, the car is ready. The fans are waiting. Please wear sunglasses—it's crowded tonight."
Wei Ran nodded, slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked out with his usual graceful detachment.
To the public, Xu Wei Ran was a prodigy. Straight from the National Film Academy to center stage, rising like a meteor. His face was everywhere—idol dramas, films, commercials, music shows.
But unlike most idols, he chose projects with weight. He refused quick fame. His acting had depth, his music subtle poetry. Reporters called him "the rare green star"—untainted, unscandalous, reliable.
In truth, he only lived this way because of her.
Lin Qing Yun.
When she gave up her scholarship, he promised to carry her dream. She told him, "Live the life I should have lived." And so he did. Every late-night rehearsal, every grueling shoot, every line he perfected—it was as if he carried two souls: his own and hers.
When asked in interviews if he had a girlfriend, he always smiled faintly.
"No. Not yet."
He never explained further. The world could speculate. Only he knew—his answer had never changed for four years.
His penthouse in Guangjing was high above the neon glow, but the rooms were almost bare. A piano by the window, a shelf of books—some novels, some technical manuals she once loved. A framed high school photo rested on his desk: he and Qing Yun standing side by side after a math competition, both faintly smiling, both brilliant.
Wei Ran touched the frame lightly before sitting at the piano. His fingers pressed into keys, coaxing out a melody soft as drizzle.
He never released these songs. He called them "Rainy songs." Quiet things, filled with longing.
Every note was written for her—the girl who once called him "Rainy," who allowed him to see the real self behind her dazzling "Sunny" smile.
He leaned back, eyes half closed. Memories blurred together:
The high school library, where she leaned across the desk, whispering the solution to a problem while her hair fell across her cheek.
The way she laughed at everyone else's jokes but gave him only calm honesty.
The night she kissed him goodbye in his bedroom, soft and trembling, her voice steady even as her hands shook:
"Live the life I can't."
He pressed his palm over his eyes.
"I lived it, Sunny," he whispered to the empty room. "But I never stopped missing you."
The Zhao Corporation banquet had brought her back into his world. One glimpse of her had shattered all the walls he'd built.
Gu Ze Yan's hand on her waist, his open claim of "boyfriend"—Wei Ran's lips curved faintly. Cold rain to scorching sun.
Could Gu Ze Yan understand her? Truly?
Wei Ran remembered the way Qing Yun looked at him, still calling him Rainy. That was not a look she gave anyone else. That was their secret language, the proof of something unerasable.
His phone buzzed.
His manager's voice came brisk over the line: "Wei Ran, we've secured a big-budget film for you, international director, but it conflicts with your Liangcheng schedule. You'll need to choose."
Wei Ran looked out the window, where spring rain streaked the glass.
"Push it back," he said simply.
The manager hesitated. "But—"
"No," Wei Ran's voice was calm. "I'm staying."
The call ended.
He picked up his phone again, opening the chat with her. His fingers hovered, typing words, erasing them, typing again.
Finally, he wrote:
"Can we meet? Just the two of us. No stage, no audience."
His thumb paused above "send."
He stared at it a long time, then locked the phone, message unsent.
Instead, he whispered to himself, voice steady as a vow:
"This time, I won't let go."