The city awoke to drizzle that morning, fine beads of rain blurring the glass windows of offices and cafés. But the rain was not what people talked about.
Everywhere—from crowded metro carriages to university dormitories, from quiet offices to lively teahouses—the same song poured out from phone speakers and streaming apps.
"日雨之歌" (Song of Sun and Rain)
Verse
我是一场无声的雨,
Wǒ shì yī chǎng wúshēng de yǔ,
I am a silent rain,
飘落在你不曾停留的梦里.
Piāoluò zài nǐ bùcéng tíngliú de mèng lǐ.
Falling into dreams where you never linger.
你是永远的日光,
Nǐ shì yǒngyuǎn de rìguāng,
You are the eternal sunlight,
在我消散之后才降临.
Zài wǒ xiāosàn zhīhòu cái jiànglín.
Arriving only after I have faded.
Chorus
这是日与雨的歌,
Zhè shì rì yǔ yǔ de gē,
This is the song of sun and rain,
当你照耀时,我已沉寂.
Dāng nǐ zhàoyào shí, wǒ yǐ chénjì.
When you shine, I am already silent.
我所倾注的一切,化作雾气,
Wǒ suǒ qīngzhù de yīqiè, huà zuò wùqì,
All I poured out turns into mist,
日与雨,从不相依.
Rì yǔ yǔ, cóng bù xiāngyī.
Sun and rain, never together.
就像我爱你,却无法靠近.
Jiù xiàng wǒ ài nǐ, què wúfǎ kàojìn.
Just like I love you, yet cannot draw near.
It had dropped without warning, Xu Wei Ran releasing it at midnight. By dawn, it was already viral.
The Song That Shook the City
The melody was gentle, melancholy, threaded with something almost too fragile to touch.
His voice carried a quiet ache, a longing carefully restrained.
Fans filled Weibo with comments:
"This feels so personal—who is his inspiration?"
"Is Wei Ran confessing unrequited love?"
"Sun and rain… does he mean opposites that can't coexist?"
Critics praised its poetry, calling it "a rain-soaked diary of love." Clips of his live performance—dressed in black, spotlight falling like drizzle—spread wildly.
Some wrote, "Xu Wei Ran is finally singing with his heart exposed. This isn't just a song—it's a confession."
Lin Qing Yun read the lyrics once, then again. Each line seemed to echo pieces of their past—the rain of his gentleness, the sun of her forced brightness.
Her phone buzzed.
Wei Ran: Did you hear the song?
She stared at the screen, hesitated, then typed back:
Qing Yun: Pretty.
The reply came almost instantly.
Wei Ran: Not as pretty as the muse.
Her lips curved faintly. In the past, she would have avoided answering, left his words hanging in silence. But something inside her had settled since their last meeting in the park.
She had chosen to stop running. To stop carrying guilt for leaving him behind.
Now, she allowed herself to be his friend again—nothing more, nothing less.
So she didn't avoid him. She didn't scold him. She simply let the conversation rest with that quiet smile.
Evening at the Bookstore Café
The rain eased by nightfall, leaving the streets of Liangcheng shining with reflections of neon light.
In the familiar warmth of the bookstore café, Qing Yun tied on her apron, arranging books on the counter. A small speaker played softly in the background—ironic enough, it was Song of Sun and Rain again, on repeat.
She picked up her phone during a lull, opened a video clip of Wei Ran performing.
There he was—tall and striking under the stage lights, voice steady, eyes carrying that same melancholy.
For a moment she just watched, lips curving into a faint smile. It was beautiful. But her heart no longer ached. It was like watching a memory put into music—something she could appreciate without drowning in it.
She looked up.
Across the café, Gu Ze Yan sat at a corner table, a thick management book in hand, brows knitted. His figure was tall, his posture composed, but there was a faint crease between his eyebrows from concentration.
Her chest warmed. She realized her gaze had softened without her noticing.
The man in the video was brilliant and distant, shining before the world.
But the man before her now—quietly reading under the yellow café light, lips pressed together as he turned a page—was the one who belonged to her present.
Ze Yan sensed her stare. Without lifting his head, he tilted it slightly, his eyes flicking up. "What's wrong?"
Qing Yun startled, then shook her head quickly, lips curving into her familiar smile. "Nothing."
He closed his book, stood, and crossed the room in a few long strides.
Without asking, without caring about the few customers scattered around, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Warmth spread from the touch, making her blink rapidly.
"Then don't look at me like that," he murmured lowly, "or I can't concentrate on my book."
She laughed softly, pushing his chest lightly. "Go back to your reading."
But he only smirked, sat down beside her instead, and pulled her chair a little closer.
Future Plans
Later that night, when the last customer had left and the café lights dimmed, Ze Yan leaned back in his chair, one arm stretched along the back of hers.
"I have another business trip coming up," he said casually, though his gaze fixed on her carefully.
She looked up. "Where to this time?"
"Qinghu." His voice softened, as though the word carried special weight.
Her brows lifted slightly. Qinghu—the city known for its shimmering lake, willow trees, and classical gardens. She had seen it only in pictures.
He reached over, entwined his fingers with hers. "This time, you're coming with me."
Her first instinct was hesitation. Traveling with him… stepping further into his world.
But then his thumb brushed her knuckles gently, his gaze unwavering.
And she found herself nodding. "Alright."
His lips curved into a rare, boyish smile.
Inside, Qing Yun felt her heart stir. Now, every step she took with him felt like stepping into a new chapter—unknown, but filled with warmth.
That night, as she walked home, she scrolled through her phone one last time. The city was still buzzing with Wei Ran's song, fans dissecting every lyric.
But for her, the song was no longer a wound. It was simply… rain. A soft drizzle, something she could appreciate from afar.
In her heart, the sunlight she leaned toward was not in the music, nor on the stage.
It was in the man who kissed her forehead in a small bookstore café, who wanted to take her to Qinghu, who made her laugh when he sulked and melt when he smiled.
For the first time, she realized—she wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was quietly, cautiously, learning how to live.