Chapter 6

He was right.

Ever since I found out where he went after dropping out, it was as if I’d found a new anchor for my soul.

I obsessively searched for every bit of information about his new team, followed every related forum and message board.

Back then, his team was just an obscure second-tier squad, with only a handful of followers.

But to me, it felt like I’d unearthed a one-of-a-kind treasure.

Every livestream and online match he played-whenever I had the chance, I’d find a way to secretly watch it all.

Watching him turn the tide with dazzling moves, seeing his cold, focused profile even when facing formidable opponents.

My heart would pound wildly with every kill he made, and clench painfully whenever he suffered a rare defeat.

I started writing him letters, just like other fans.

Bought the finest stationery, racked my brain for the right words.

One letter, two, ten… I didn’t know if he ever received them, or if he’d even read them.

But I never tired of it.

It became the only grand and secret ritual in my barren youth.

Later.

With his absolute skill and that strikingly handsome face, he quickly rose to fame. His team’s results improved, and his fanbase grew.

I finally saved enough money, and that sweltering summer, I bought a ticket to an offline match-a ticket that was quite expensive for me at the time.

Squeezed among the noisy, passionate crowd of fans, my palms were slick with sweat from nerves.

When the host called out his ID-Flame-and he walked onto the stage with his teammates in their uniforms, the dazzling lights focused on him.

His expression was still cold and stern, but it was as if he radiated his own light.

In that moment, all the cheers and screams around me seemed to fade away.

In my world, there was only him, controlling his character and dominating the arena, calmly commanding his team.

My heart beat wildly for him again, more fiercely than ever before.

I knew.

Maybe it was no longer just admiration.

Somewhere along the way, my gaze had changed its nature.

Chasing after his brilliant light, I somehow managed to stumble my way into a pretty good university.

With more time and a little disposable income.

I poured almost all my energy into “liking Xu Qing.”

I studied game guides, just to better understand his plays;

I learned video editing, making highlight reels for him;

I wrote long, detailed analysis posts on forums, praising every bit of his progress with solid arguments.

I became a well-known “tech fan” and big fan in the fandom, and met many other girls who liked him just as much.

That year, on his birthday,

A few of us core fans planned a small offline birthday support event, renting a tiny café room, decorating it with balloons and banners.

Everyone was chattering away, writing postcards full of blessings, faces glowing with pure love and joy.

I was in a great mood, leaning by the window, absentmindedly tossing a coin in my hand.

The coin spun in the air, catching the dim light.

Then, just as it landed in my palm, I happened to glance down at the street-

My heart skipped a beat.

That figure in a black hoodie, head down, hurrying past…

I couldn’t be mistaken.

Even if it was just a blurry outline, just a back view, I would never mistake him.

It was Xu Qing.

Why was he here?

A rush of surprise and nerves overwhelmed me. Without thinking, I grabbed the thick stack of pink-and-blue postcards covered in blessings from the table and dashed downstairs.

My heart was pounding like a drum as I scanned the street anxiously.

Finally, I spotted him again.

I hurried after him.

Up close, I saw his face was unusually pale, brows tightly furrowed.

He seemed to be under immense pressure or discomfort, his whole being radiating exhaustion and a heavy gloom.

But in my excitement, I didn’t think twice.

Panting, I ran up to him, forcing out my biggest, brightest smile.

My voice trembled with excitement: “Xu Qing! Happy birthday! These-these are blessings from your fans, I hope you can…”

My words cut off abruptly.

Because he looked up.

Those usually cool eyes were now bloodshot,

filled with undisguised irritation and a near-breakdown exhaustion.

He suddenly interrupted me, his voice cold as ice: “Can you stop following me?”

I froze, my hand holding the postcards suspended in midair.

“I’m not-I wasn’t following you, I just happened to…”

I tried to explain, my face flushing red.

He twisted his mouth into an ugly, deeply disgusted expression.

“Enough!”

He almost growled, “Isn’t it disgusting, a man chasing after another man? All this-your so-called ‘liking’ really feels like a burden to me.”

“Don’t follow me anymore!”

With that, he strode off without looking back.

It was as if I’d been struck by lightning, frozen in place, unable to move.

The stack of postcards in my hand, filled with sincere feelings, suddenly felt scorching hot, burning my fingertips.

The noisy street around me seemed to mute in an instant.

All I could hear was the sound of my heart shattering.

Piece by piece, falling to the ground, smashed to bits.

The word “disgusting” echoed in my ears like a vicious curse, over and over.

Maybe the love I’d cherished so carefully, treated as a treasure, was in his eyes something so repulsive, so unbearable.

That day, I wandered the streets for a long, long time.

And then, I got the call from the hospital.