It was my fault for lacking willpower, for believing Yu Baijin’s sweet words and honeyed phrases, for being coaxed and deceived by him into sharing a bed with him for the second time, and for dreaming of the past again.

That ambiguous screening room, the scattered white specks on the projection screen, the sensation of his lips, the aftertaste of beer spreading through our kiss—it had no sense of confrontation or offense, as light and smooth as saying “goodbye.” 

I also stood up to leave, closed the door properly, making it seem as if I had never been there at all. 

It wasn’t until I walked out of the academic building that it hit me belatedly, with cold dread creeping through my entire body: I had actually been separated from my employer for more than half an hour.

For that brief moment, I had almost completely forgotten about her.

I rushed back to the classroom where she was having her lesson, running. 

My footsteps coincided with the dismissal bell, and I ran right into Rong Wanqing surrounded by several students in the hallway, clustered around an elegant middle-aged female teacher asking questions. 

She held a thick textbook in her arms, her black hair hanging down to her waist, her legs standing straight, wearing affordable jeans and canvas shoes. 

If my younger sister were still alive, she would have been about the same age.

Black hair, braided in twin braids, wearing cheap but pretty dresses, always smiling at me, calling me:

“Ge” (older brother).

Rong Wanqing turned around and saw me, very happy: “You’re here.” 

Her classmates also looked over at the sound, familiarly addressing me as “Jian.” Among them were a small number of foreigners who didn’t understand our language but could parrot a few phrases. 

Their pronunciation was fairly standard, though it sounded like a girl’s name.

Yet among this group of friends from all over the world, only Yu Baijin had asked me seriously: “Is the second character in your name pronounced ‘mai’ or ‘mo’?”

I said, mo. 

He then broke into a radiant smile, his eyes crinkling.

“Mo, as in hanqing-momo (tender and affectionate).”

Only he called me that way.

“You two have a good relationship?”

Rong Wanqing expressed curiosity—she had never seen me “have dealings” with any outsider. 

And not many days after that day, she received two hand-drawn tickets with oddly-shaped horses, cacti, gun-wielding cowboys, and seductively glancing women drawn on them. 

“The film school is organizing a screening event this weekend, Western-themed. He invited me—and you.”

“No.”

In my shock, I denied it outright, uncertain myself what I was denying. 

I simply couldn’t admit that during my dereliction of duty, I had kissed a man of unknown background. 

I hadn’t even spoken more than a few words with him. 

I didn’t know his origins, his character, or his intention in kissing me. 

It was utterly absurd. “I’m not going.

“If you want to go, go ahead. I’m not familiar with him.”

“Is that so…”

Though it wasn’t a lie, I felt unusually guilty, unable to explain the provocation and attraction I had experienced. 

It had enticed me to cross a boundary, even if only by one step. 

If I didn’t cut my losses in time, I feared I would sink deeper and deeper.

I had that premonition even then.

Yet I still went that weekend.

I couldn’t resist Rong Wanqing. 

She dragged me by the arm, using both carrot and stick to pull me into the film school’s club activity room. 

The students had arranged this place into a small-scale cinema of some size, able to accommodate over thirty people for group viewings. 

Everyone either sat or stood, some leaning against the walls, bringing their own drinks or fruit-flavored e-cigarettes. 

The smoke occasionally obscured the screen, and students in the back rows who made hissing sounds would immediately throw peanut shells at heads. 

Couples who came under the pretense of watching movies but were actually there to date would also be jeered at, though without malice—it was a kind of unguarded familiarity built on closeness. 

“You two are such an eyesore.” 

“Go get a room.”

“What about you? Have you ever watched a movie with someone you liked?”

When the plot progressed to the scene where the male and female leads confessed their feelings to each other, I boredly shifted my gaze, scanning every blurred back of a head in the venue, yet I didn’t dare confirm who I was looking for. 

Rong Wanqing lowered her voice and asked quietly. 

I answered honestly: “No.”

“That’s such a shame.”

I didn’t want to refute my employer’s teasing. 

As long as she was happy, I had my duties. 

The conversation ended there, but the door behind us opened and closed slightly. 

A figure slipped in silently, bringing with it the cool summer night breeze and the scent of mint candy, taking a seat beside me, not at all like someone “I’m not familiar with.”

Yu Baijin, who had arrived late, very naturally leaned close to my ear and asked: “Where are they in the film?”

I looked toward the screen. 

The camera was focused on a house.

It was burning.

Twelve-year-old me stood in front of it, the raging firelight reflected in my eyes. 

My small body seemed frozen stiff, unable to move, my teeth chattering “ke-ke,” until the load-bearing beam broke from burning and the roof collapsed with a thunderous crash, submerged in the towering flames. 

I could still hear my sister’s cries and my mother’s shouts—they were telling me to run away quickly.

Run away quickly.

My forehead hair and eyelashes could feel the surging heat waves, yet my feet couldn’t move an inch. 

I couldn’t even retreat. 

In the end, my uncle scooped me up from the ground, ran outside the village under cover of night, and threw me beside the railway tracks. 

He told me to follow the rails forward, keep going forward, pass through culverts and tunnels, and climb onto the green-painted train that would arrive at the station at dawn. 

It would only stop for eight minutes. 

The last four carriages were loaded with feed—hide among those pillow-like woven sacks, and don’t get caught.

I did as he told me, crying as I ran, my breathing tasting of blood, my sweat-soaked backpack pounding against my back. 

Yet the lengthy tunnel seemed endless. 

After a high-pitched whistle’s long blast, I saw two golden suns approaching me from the boundless black night.

So warm.

I was killed by the train. 

My body was ground into pulp, my backpack was flung against the blue-black tunnel wall, spilling books and stationery all over the ground, like fragmented corpses.

“…

“Jian Mo?

“Baby, wake up.”

I opened my eyes with a violent intake of breath, my chest heaving like a bellows, covered head to toe in cold sweat. 

Yu Baijin held me in his arms, my limbs spasming in the aftermath of the nightmare. 

My hands and feet ached from excessive exertion. 

As my vision and hearing returned, I realized where I was and who the person beside me was.

His fingers were slender, threading into my sweat-dampened hair, gathering me to rest against his neck so I could feel his pulsing heartbeat—proof of being alive.

“You had a nightmare, didn’t you…”

He seemed to have just woken up too, his voice still a bit hoarse, his breathing heavy, his sleep-talk mixed with meaningless low moans. 

“Good boy… it’s okay now… I’m here.” 

His hand slid down my back, caressing me through my damp undershirt. 

Midway through, he seemed to fall asleep again, stopping for a moment before holding me tighter.

“With me here, you’ll be fine.”

I clutched his hem tightly, wanting very much to mock him: What do you know? You know nothing about my past, nor do you care to listen and confide. What does it matter that you’re here? The past has long been cast, unable to be altered or redone. Your so-called love is only to fill yourself, because you’re as incomplete as I am—yet I couldn’t speak. My parched throat couldn’t make a sound.

Because he too was all alone. 

I couldn’t stab him with the same knife that had pierced me.

I evened out my breathing and let go, but my face was suddenly cupped in his hands. 

Just as I was about to dodge, the anticipated kiss didn’t fall.

In the dimness and intimacy, he seemed to be sulking, pressing against the tip of my nose and forcibly turning away, saying: “I won’t kiss you.

“I’m still mad at you.”

It took me a long time to squeeze out an interjection: “Huh?”

“For what you said to me last night.”

“What right do you have to be angry?”

I vigorously cleared my throat. 

The trace of tenderness from moments ago vanished instantly. 

“I’m the one who’s troubled.”

“After all, I can’t force you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, his fingertips rubbing against the artery on the side of my neck, murmuring lowly: “That wouldn’t be love.”

After a brief moment, he let me go, turned over to one side, facing the ceiling. 

I also stared wide-eyed, lying flat side by side with him, yet my state of mind was rarely peaceful.

“You’re very candid,” I said. “You live much more freely than I do.”

“But I’m a little sad.” 

He turned his head to look at me. 

“I can be sad, can’t I?”

“Mm.”

I exhaled. 

“People are sad at times like these.”