The car slowed to a stop near the park entrance. Night had already deepened; streetlamps painted the sidewalks in pale yellow circles, and the sound of cicadas threaded softly through the quiet air.
Qing Yun stared down at her phone. The screen glowed with Xu Wei Ran's message, the short line of words carrying a weight she had no choice but to answer. She pressed her lips together, then lifted her gaze to Gu Ze Yan.
"Drop me here," she said gently. "He's waiting."
Ze Yan's hands tightened on the wheel. For a long time, he didn't speak. The only sound was the faint hum of the engine, the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. His eyes flickered to her face—so calm, so steady, as if she had already decided.
A memory rose in his mind: her voice inside the Ferris wheel cabin, light but firm—"someone who also trusts me, even when the world seems burning."
He swallowed down the urge to protest. After a moment, he nodded. "Alright."
When the car came to a full stop, Wei Ran was already there, standing in the shadow of the gate. Even in a simple cap and mask, he carried the aura of someone the world could never ignore.
Ze Yan lowered the window. His voice was calm, but each word seemed to weigh a thousand jin.
"Take care of her."
Wei Ran's eyes flicked to him, unreadable. Before either could say more, Ze Yan pressed the accelerator. The car's taillights glowed red, then disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the faint scent of gasoline and silence behind.
Qing Yun and Wei Ran stood there for a while, watching the space where the car had been. The silence stretched, until finally Wei Ran turned toward her.
"Let's walk?"
She gave a slight nod.
They strolled into the park, the gravel path crunching softly underfoot. The breeze carried the scent of spring blossoms, faintly sweet. Around them, the world was hushed, the city noise far away, as if they had stepped into a pocket of time where only the two of them existed.
They stopped at a secluded bench beneath the trees. Wei Ran sat down, then slowly removed his mask and cap. In the faint light, his face appeared the same as always—handsome, elegant, his sharp features softened by quiet warmth. But to Qing Yun, he was not the famous actor, not the beloved singer. He was Xu Wei Ran, the boy she once knew, the boy she once kissed goodbye.
His voice was low. "I'm sorry."
Qing Yun shook her head gently, lips curving faintly. "Nothing to be sorry about."
His fingers tightened against his knees. "I just… don't want to lose you. After all this time."
Her gaze softened, but her words remained steady. "What do you think will happen if we're together? Rainy…" She called him by that name, the one only she ever used. It slipped from her lips with quiet familiarity, and for a moment, his heart trembled.
"You know exactly the reason I let you go."
The air stilled. Her eyes lowered as she exhaled slowly, her tone calm but resolute. "You know what I'm doing and where I'm going. And surely… my path is not the same as yours. I'm sorry, Rainy. Years ago, I made it seem like you had hope. But I did it for closure—for both of us—to move on."
Wei Ran's throat tightened. He looked at her, sadness clouding his refined features. The fear he had carried across four years and thousands of miles had finally taken shape in front of him.
She continued, softer this time: "You did great, Rainy. Amazing, even. But that's not my place… and not where my heart belongs."
For a long moment, he couldn't breathe. The weight of her words pressed against his chest, yet he found himself unable to let go.
She leaned lightly against his shoulder. It was a gesture so familiar it felt like a return to childhood. His hand came up instinctively, stroking her hair, the strands silky against his palm.
Her voice drifted softly. "Hmm… I remember a song. The song you sing that night.."
A small smile touched his lips. He closed his eyes briefly, then began to sing.
His voice was low at first, as if afraid to disturb the night air.
"I haven't yet felt the snowfall bloom in the sky…
If we shiver together, maybe we'd learn what it means to be kind.
I haven't yet held your hand through the empty dunes…
Maybe then we'd treasure forever, and the turning of moons."
He paused, eyes dim with something unspoken, then continued—softer, almost like a secret meant only for her.
"Sometimes, sometimes…
I believe that everything must end.
We meet, we part—it's written in time,
Nothing is meant to last without bend.
But sometimes, sometimes…
I'd rather linger, not let go.
And when the world has all been seen,
Maybe you'd stay, to watch the gentle stream."
The words quivered in the quiet, not grand, not perfect—just aching with honesty.
"I haven't yet cooked red beans, sweet and slow with pain…
To share the taste of longing, the sorrow love contains.
I haven't yet kissed you awake in the morning light…
Maybe by my side, you'd still be chasing flight."
His voice dropped lower, almost breaking, but he sang the refrain again, steadying himself with every note.
"Sometimes, sometimes…
I believe that everything must end.
We meet, we part—it's written in time,
Nothing is meant to never bend.
But sometimes, sometimes…
I'd rather linger, not let go.
And when the world has all been seen,
Maybe you'd stay, to watch the gentle stream…"
When the last line faded, the silence felt heavier than the song. Wei Ran gave a small smile—gentle, resigned. He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't ask her to stay. The song itself was all he had left to give.
The melody hung in the night air, weaving with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas. It was not a grand performance, but a prayer, tender and bittersweet.
When the last note faded, he whispered, "I really hope you achieve what you want, Qing Yun. I'll be there whenever you need me… as a friend. A good one."
Qing Yun lifted her head, meeting his gaze. Her smile was warm, touched with sadness, yet resolute. "I know."
They stood and began walking again, side by side. The path stretched long and quiet, illuminated by soft golden lamps. When they reached the park's edge, Wei Ran halted. His hand reached out, pulling her into an embrace. His arms wrapped tightly around her, as if to memorize her presence one last time.
He lowered his lips and pressed them gently against her forehead. The kiss lingered, full of longing and farewell.
Qing Yun let him, then stepped back, her tone calm but firm. "Go. Leave before anyone spots you."
He nodded, eyes holding hers for one last, heavy moment. Then he turned, his tall figure retreating toward the parking lot.
She watched him until he disappeared into the darkness. Turning toward her apartment, she exhaled slowly, the cool night brushing her face.
At the crossroads, they raised their hands, one final wave—hers soft, his reluctant.
And then, like parallel lines destined to diverge, they walked away from each other.