The summer of 2007 stretched endlessly before Sang Yan—longest of his life, yet somehow hollow. After returning from Beiyu, Wen Yifan's name became a ghost in conversations that never came, an absence that filled every room.
His exam results were excellent. The admission letter from a prestigious university arrived in crisp, official paper. His parents beamed with pride, relatives paraded him as their achievement, and joy saturated the air around him like humidity before rain.
Free from the suffocating weight of entrance exams, Sang Yan's days opened up. He filled them with basketball games and late-night sessions with friends, with reluctant brotherly duties toward his sister, with sleeping until noon became routine.
He simply continued living.
And it was devastatingly simple.
Distance made forgetting effortless—if you didn't seek information, didn't ask questions, didn't look back. Without conscious effort, he could sever every thread connecting him to her world. She could exist somewhere beyond his reach, and he could pretend it didn't matter.
So easy it felt cruel.
Sang Yan never deliberately allowed himself to think of Wen Yifan. He convinced himself it was merely a matter of timing—good luck meeting someone he liked, bad luck that she didn't return the feeling.
Completely ordinary.
So ordinary that dwelling on it felt theatrical, excessive. To be sad for even one more second, to think of her one more time—it would be embarrassingly sentimental.
Yet somehow, he still counted the seconds.
Wen Yifan returned to his thoughts the day he moved into Nanwu University.
His roommate Duan Jiaxu mentioned he was from Yihe, and the words nearly tumbled from Sang Yan's mouth unbidden: "How is it there?"
"Beautiful city. You should visit when you get the chance," Duan Jiaxu smiled easily. "Though the climate's nothing like here. Still adjusting to Nanwu."
Their other roommates were occupied—one on the phone, another in the shower. The two young men stood on the balcony as evening descended, summer breeze carrying the weight of unspoken things.
Sang Yan's fingers found the cigarette pack in his pocket automatically. He bit down on a cigarette without speaking, then wordlessly offered the pack to Duan Jiaxu.
Duan Jiaxu accepted but only turned it over in his hands, making no move to light one.
The lighter's flame licked the cigarette tip, painting it crimson. As smoke curled from Sang Yan's lips, his mind drifted unbidden to Wen Yifan's distaste for smoking. How she'd always pull his arm, hurrying them past anyone lighting up on the street.
He couldn't pinpoint when smoking became his habit.
When had he willingly transformed into the kind of person she'd want to avoid?
"Something wrong?" Duan Jiaxu's voice cut through the silence. "Did a friend get into school there?"
"No." Sang Yan turned his head, expression carefully neutral. "I almost applied there myself."
"What stopped you?"
Night settled around them, thick and quiet. Osmanthus fragrance rode the hot wind. Sang Yan stood in his black t-shirt, eyes dark as ink, elbow resting against the railing. Laughter echoed from somewhere in the distance. He said nothing, simply finished his cigarette in measured drags.
Time stretched.
When Duan Jiaxu had given up expecting an answer—
Sang Yan released a breath that might have been a laugh. "By the time I wanted to change it, the deadline had passed."
University life fell into predictable patterns. Military training left him sun-darkened. His days became a triangle of classroom, dormitory, and basketball court. Girls pursued him with increasing boldness, confessions arriving like clockwork, but he felt nothing resembling interest.
It was exhausting, dealing with expectations he couldn't meet. Eventually, he stopped bothering to reject anyone directly—simply built walls too high for anyone to scale.
He lived like a monk, though not by religious conviction.
Sang Yan didn't tell himself he was waiting for someone. He simply refused to settle. The thought of dating someone because he'd reached "that age" or because someone seemed "good enough"—it repulsed him.
He'd never believed that life required a romantic partner to be complete.
If he was lucky enough to find the right person, wonderful.
If not?
Living alone wasn't the tragedy people made it out to be.
On Frost's Descent, in those peculiar hours before dawn, Sang Yan dreamed of early high school days. Of Wen Yifan when she was still called "Wen Vase" behind her back, mocked and nicknamed, yet somehow maintaining that impossible gentleness.
He woke at 2:10 AM.
The 24th had arrived.
Sitting up in bed, Sang Yan let his head clear. But night has a way of fermenting emotions, making them unmanageable. In that moment, control slipped from his grasp entirely. He grabbed his phone and walked to the balcony.
His fingers remembered her number perfectly.
In the second before calling, his mind flooded with questions: How would she react to his voice? Would she be angry at being woken? Would she even answer? After everything he'd said, did he have any right to this call?
But he needed to know—had she adjusted to her new life? Was anyone treating her poorly?
All these thoughts shattered against the mechanical voice from the other end:
"Sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service."
For the first time, Sang Yan understood with crushing certainty:
Wen Yifan had truly, completely, cut him out of her life.
The realization hit like accumulated pressure suddenly released. His head dropped, Adam's apple working. He lowered the phone, redialed, listened to those same words repeat endlessly.
When it automatically disconnected, he dialed again.
Stubborn. Desperate. Countless times.
In the profound silence of night, the young man leaned against the railing, repeating the same futile action. Only when his phone died did he finally lower it, remaining alone on the balcony as darkness slowly surrendered to dawn.
Sang Yan always seemed to have words trapped inside him.
Like when he went to see her in Beiyu—those carefully prepared speeches never got spoken.
And now this.
This "happy birthday" would join them.
Another message destined to remain forever undelivered.
Winter break of freshman year, Su Hao'an dragged Sang Yan to a high school reunion. Six months had passed since he'd heard Wen Yifan's name, until Zhong Siqiao mentioned her casually.
The private room felt suffocating. Sang Yan escaped to the corridor for a cigarette.
Zhong Siqiao followed shortly after to take a call, not noticing him in the dim light. "You're not coming back for winter break? I was thinking we could meet up—either I'd visit you in Beiyu or you'd come to Nanwu."
Sang Yan's hand froze mid-motion.
"Why not? Are you dating someone?" Zhong Siqiao pressed. "If not, you'll be miserable alone there... Fine, take care of yourself. Oh, I downloaded that game you mentioned. What server were you on? Server 2?"
"Really? That's surprising, you playing games." Zhong Siqiao laughed. "What's your username? I'll make a matching one!"
"Mild Boiling Water? What kind of name is that? Alright, then I'll be Fierce Ice Water."
Later, Sang Yan learned the game's name from Su Hao'an. On a restless night before New Year's, he stared at his ceiling before suddenly getting up and turning on his computer.
He watched the screen for a long moment, then opened the webpage and began downloading.
Instinct guided him toward creating a male character, but thoughts of Wen Yifan made him hesitate. His mouse hovered, then clicked to female instead. At the username input screen, he paused for several seconds.
Then slowly typed two characters:
Bai Xiang. White Surrender.
The truth crystallized: He'd already surrendered.
He simply couldn't let her go.
Sang Yan played for days until his level matched hers, then typed "Mild Boiling Water" into the friend request window. The game allowed random additions—it was even a level requirement to add fifty friends.
She accepted quickly.
He found her location through the game map and flew there, watching her fight monsters alone. He joined silently, matching her rhythm.
After a while, Sang Yan stopped and typed:
[Bai Xiang]: Want to team up?
Her character paused. A speech bubble appeared above her head.
[Mild Boiling Water]: Okay.
In that instant, Sang Yan surrendered completely. For the first time in six months, he felt something like peace. His lips curved slightly as he remembered his parting words to her:
"I won't bother you anymore."
A promise, as binding as when he'd once told her: "I will always be by your side."
He'd meant both.
But he couldn't keep the first.
So his only option was returning to her side wearing a different face.
Wen Yifan's online presence was sporadic, most active during sophomore year's second semester. They grew comfortable with each other gradually, occasionally sharing real-life details.
He learned she practically lived in the library.
He learned she worked part-time at an off-campus milk tea shop.
He learned she still hadn't dated anyone.
Sang Yan gathered these fragments carefully, building a picture of her life from shadows.
Eventually, real-world responsibilities pulled her away. Login frequency dropped from days to weeks to months. But throughout four years, she never completely abandoned the game.
Their conversations remained mundane:
[Mild Boiling Water]: Your username is quite ominous.
[Mild Boiling Water]: Defeat and surrender?
[Mild Boiling Water]: Wait, how do you pronounce it?
[Defeated Surrender]: Jiang.
[Mild Boiling Water]: Did you make a typo? Shouldn't it be the other "jiang"?
[Defeated Surrender]: That username was taken.
[Mild Boiling Water]: I've been swamped with studies lately. Won't be online much.
[Defeated Surrender]: Understood.
[Mild Boiling Water]: We've always teamed up together. I don't know if you wait for me, but I'd worry about it. So I wanted to tell you.
[Defeated Surrender]: I do wait.
[Defeated Surrender]: But I'm starting an internship soon. I'll be rare too.
[Defeated Surrender]: Let's stay in touch when we can.
Their only connection thread gradually thinned.
Sang Yan continued visiting Yihe regularly. Sometimes he missed seeing her, but often enough he'd catch glimpses—noticing she'd lost weight, made a new friend, cut her hair, seemed a shade brighter.
When WeChat launched, a red notification dot appeared one evening. He clicked to find someone named simply "Wen," with the ID wenyifan1024.
Added via phone contacts.
Sang Yan stared for several seconds before accepting.
She never messaged first.
Perhaps adding him had been accidental.
Time passed.
Her first Moments post appeared—a photo of newspapers stacked high on an office desk, captioned: [After a week of reading newspapers, I'll start memorizing them tomorrow if nothing else comes up.]
Zhong Siqiao commented mockingly: [Hahaha, not bad finding an internship!]
From the visible text, Sang Yan recognized the Yihe Daily.
On his next visit to Yihe, his feet stopped at a newspaper stand. He pulled several hundred-yuan notes from his wallet and addressed the elderly woman there softly: "Auntie, could you save me a copy of the Yihe Daily every day?"
"Save one? Every day?"
"Yes. I'll collect them every three months."
On Wen Yifan's graduation day, Sang Yan entered the auditorium and claimed a back-row seat. He watched her cross the stage to receive her diploma, watched friends pull her aside for photos afterward.
In any crowd, she was always the one he saw first.
The one who stood out like a lighthouse.
At one point, Sang Yan drew his phone from his pocket. He watched her in the distance, swallowed by the sea of celebrating graduates, separated from him by an invisible but insurmountable barrier.
So many times now.
Not once had she noticed his presence.
From beginning to end, she'd never truly seen him.
Dressed formally in white shirt and suit pants—clothes that felt foreign on his frame—Sang Yan raised his phone and, after four years, called her name aloud: "Wen Yifan."
Following the sound, she turned, bewildered.
It was the first time he'd appeared before her without hiding behind masks or caps.
His heart split in contradiction—
Desperate for her to recognize him, terrified she actually would.
For one infinite second, her gaze landed fully on his face.
Then Sang Yan turned and walked away. He looked down at his phone screen showing Wen Yifan's face, still wearing that faint smile, still wrapped in graduation joy.
As it should be.
This was her day for happiness.
Not for encountering ghosts from her past.
He curved his lips slightly and stepped away from the celebrating crowd, one deliberate step at a time.
Just like every visit before.
Arriving alone. Leaving alone.
As if repeating endlessly a solitary pilgrimage with no destination.
After graduation, Sang Yan partnered with friends to open a bar while keeping his position at the company where he'd interned. Work consumed him. Yihe visits became rarer.
Through Wen Yifan's Moments updates, he learned she'd changed jobs, joining the news program team at Yihe Radio and Television.
Beyond that, he knew nothing.
When time allowed, Sang Yan logged into the dying game. Years had passed. Most players had abandoned it. His friends list remained entirely gray. Occasionally, he'd spot leveling bots across empty maps.
On a summer night in 2013, habit drove him to log in before bed.
And there—impossibly—was Wen Yifan, online after more than a year's absence.
He stared for several seconds, confirming he wasn't hallucinating, then immediately flew to her location.
[Defeated Surrender]: Did your account get hacked?
[Mild Boiling Water]: ...You're still playing?
[Mild Boiling Water]: I was clearing software and realized I'd never uninstalled this. Logged in to look around.
[Defeated Surrender]: Mm.
[Defeated Surrender]: How have you been?
The pause stretched unbearably.
[Mild Boiling Water]: Not great.
[Mild Boiling Water]: There's not much happiness in life. But we keep living anyway.
The words struck him physically.
It was the first time she'd expressed such darkness to him.
After more idle conversation—
[Mild Boiling Water]: I need to go. Logging off.
Her character vanished.
Sang Yan stared at the empty screen for a long time before booking a noon flight to Yihe for the next day.
Evening had fallen by the time he arrived.
Sang Yan took a taxi to Yihe Radio and Television's entrance. Before exiting, he spotted Wen Yifan emerging from the building. She carried a bag, walking slowly, expression vacant as fog.
He followed at a distance.
She walked straight ahead, crossing streets, turning corners. When passing a cake shop, she stopped for exactly three seconds, staring at the strawberry cake displayed in the window.
As if calculating the price and finding it too expensive, she quickly looked away and continued forward.
Eventually, Wen Yifan sat on a street-side bench, staring blankly at nothing.
She didn't cry. Didn't check her phone. Didn't call anyone.
She simply sat, doing nothing at all.
Whatever had happened remained a mystery.
Sang Yan watched from a corner, something in his chest fracturing. His eyelashes trembled as he turned and entered the cake shop, purchasing the strawberry cake. He paid but didn't take the packaged box from the clerk.
Instead, he pointed outside. "Could you give this cake to the woman on that bench?"
"Excuse me?"
"Tell her it's a new product," Sang Yan improvised weakly. "Say if she posts about it on social media, it's free."
For three months after returning to Nanwu, Sang Yan couldn't stop seeing Wen Yifan sitting silently on that bench. Finally, clarity arrived with sudden force. He sat at his computer and began typing his resignation letter.
If she wasn't doing well—
What was left for him to hesitate about?
He remembered the game message he'd tried to send, the one that never reached her before she logged off forever:
—Do you want to try somewhere new?
She'd never received it.
But perhaps that was solvable too.
If you won't come—
Then I'll go to you.
The evening of his formal resignation, Su Hao'an dragged him to "work overtime" at the bar for drinks. The moment Sang Yan entered, his eyes found Wen Yifan at one of the scattered tables.
She wore a light-colored sweater, skin pale as paper, lips red, smiling as she chatted with Zhong Siqiao.
Just like always.
In that moment, Sang Yan felt profoundly disoriented, as if he'd stepped into a dream rather than reality.
Instead of heading upstairs as usual, he stopped at the bar, engaging He Mingbo in meaningless conversation. He Mingbo looked puzzled. "Brother, why aren't you going up?"
"In a bit," Sang Yan replied distantly.
"Want a drink?"
"No need."
They talked idly.
Then commotion erupted from Wen Yifan's table. He glanced over—Yu Zhuo's drink had spilled, drenching her completely. Yu Zhuo's face went pale with apologies.
She stood immediately, chilled by the alcohol.
After brief discussion, Wen Yifan headed toward the restroom. She lifted her eyes and met his gaze directly. Whether she didn't recognize him or had noticed him long ago, her expression remained eerily calm. She looked away quickly.
Beside him, He Mingbo was saying, "She seems reasonable. I'll have Yu Zhuo handle—"
Sang Yan straightened, watching Wen Yifan's retreating figure, cutting He Mingbo off mid-sentence.
"I'll go."
Because ultimately—
He couldn't bear this feeling of existing outside her world.
If he wanted to see her, he should simply go to her.
Since he could never love anyone else—
He would spend his entire life loving the one person worth a lifetime of devotion, even if she never looked back.
— Side Story: End —
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