In a Dream
After Bo Yun left, only Jiang Zhuoye remained in the screening room.
His mood was truly awful. He pressed the call button and had the staff bring popcorn, cola, and a hamburger, hoping to find a bit of simple happiness in junk food.
But after he finished eating, his spirits were still low.
He really hadn’t thought about that inexplicably vanished first love for a very long time.
Earlier, Bo Yun had asked him how he met his first love.
He hadn’t answered.
Because once you really tried to explain it, the whole thing sounded strange.
They met online, through a public welfare website. Among countless strangers, by sheer coincidence, they had come to know each other.
It was a youth mental health charity site, created to help teenagers deal with everyday worries and prevent psychological problems. The founder was an alumna from their high school, and she had come back to promote it while they were still students.
At first, Jiang Zhuoye hadn’t taken the site seriously at all. He joined as a member simply because his friends were doing it.
But one day, when he was in a bad mood and just needed somewhere to dump his feelings, he casually clicked into the website.
According to the site’s guidelines, as a teenager he could choose an email address and write down his worries and troubles. On the other end would be a vetted adult who, upon seeing the message, would reply with comfort and advice.
The relationship was fixed.
Like a kind of magical correspondence. There was no real-time chatting, but opening the inbox every day felt like unwrapping a surprise.
Jiang Zhuoye lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, leaning his head back and staring at a point in the empty ceiling as his memories drifted to the winter when he was eighteen.
He didn’t know whether anyone else had truly been helped by that website.
But he certainly had been.
At the time, he’d fractured a bone and lost the chance to play in an important football match. He was also fighting with his family and refusing to go abroad to study. Frustrated and restless, he treated that email inbox like a trash can for his emotions.
He never really believed there was a real person on the other side.
Yet a few days later, he actually received a reply.
Someone patiently responded to all of his complaints and even taught him how to negotiate with his parents.
The other person was clearly older, more mature, and incredibly patient with him.
He was shocked—and after following that person’s advice and talking things through properly with his parents, it actually worked.
So he was happy.
Later, whenever he ran into problems that his rowdy group of friends couldn’t help him solve, he would occasionally confide in that person on the other side of the internet.
After all, this person didn’t know him. Like Doraemon hiding safely behind the screen—completely secure.
And that person was always gentle and tolerant. No matter how childish his questions were, they were always taken seriously.
When the person heard that he liked collecting vintage lighters, they specially sent him a commemorative edition Dupont lighter. In his palm, it looked like a black gemstone.
Beautiful and expensive.
No matter how you thought about it, it was a gift that never should have been given to a strange teenager.
Even now, thinking about it made Jiang Zhuoye want to laugh a little.
That person had actually sent him many things—expensive and ordinary alike. From paper cranes to luxury goods, everything.
In theory, he shouldn’t have accepted them.
But back then he was naïve and foolish, secretly pleased with himself. He even believed that the other person was trying to “reel him in. Otherwise, why would they go to such lengths to please him?”
So he accepted them, thinking smugly that when they finally met, he would present even more expensive gifts and show that person exactly what kind of handsome, wealthy young man they had hooked.
A windfall like that could knock anyone senseless.
But that person never gave him the chance.
From beginning to end, the person remained hidden behind the screen, never once appearing in person.
There wasn’t even a proper goodbye. After the final email, the person simply disappeared.
Like a stone sinking into the sea—no trace, no news.
Jiang Zhuoye blinked once. In the glow of the screen, his handsome face looked especially pale.
No matter how much he tried to push this person out of his mind.
No matter how arrogant and carefree he was, how many times he convinced himself that he was young, good-looking, outstanding in both education and family background, adored by many, and had no reason to dwell on a relationship that ended without explanation—
Whenever he thought of the letters that person had once written to him, he still felt sad.
The last thing he ever received connected to that person was a red spinel necklace. Inside was a quick sketch portrait of him, placed in a beautiful box. Beside it was a postcard wishing him a happy graduation and a bright future.
There was no signature.
As if the gift-giver were just an insignificant passerby.
But he knew.
It was that person—his Ryan.
Only that person would send him a graduation gift in this way.
And now, that spinel necklace had been remade into a brooch, set into his wedding suit.
Wearing this final gift from his first love, he stood before the officiant and made false vows—with the person he hated most, the one he had complained about to Ryan countless times.
…..
That night, Jiang Zhuoye slept in the screening room.
He never came out. After finishing a hamburger and popcorn, he ordered another serving of fries smothered in cheese and meat sauce, along with a beer.
After eating, he tilted his head and fell asleep there, completely unconscious.
In the end, it was Bo Yun who carried him out.
Bo Yun hadn’t gone far. He had been sitting in the small lounge outside.
He hadn’t turned on the lights. The room was dim, with only a faint wall lamp illuminating a painting on the wall—a seventeenth-century oil painting depicting Apollo chasing Daphne, who, unable to escape, transforms into a laurel tree.
He sat quietly beneath the massive painting. Apollo’s desperate, twisted expression and Daphne’s tears hovered above his head. In the blurred light, his shadow was cast onto the wall, like a silent beast.
After an unknown amount of time, he seemed to become aware of the passing hours and shifted slightly.
He glanced down at his watch. It was already two in the morning, and Jiang Zhuoye still hadn’t come out.
He frowned faintly. After hesitating for a moment, he stood up again and went inside.
The moment he entered, he saw Jiang Zhuoye lying on the long sofa.
The sound from the screen was thunderously loud. The movie had already looped for a second time, the male and female leads still repeating their love story—yet none of it disturbed Jiang Zhuoye’s sleep.
Jiang Zhuoye looked innocent when he slept.
When awake, he was always flamboyant, like a little lion—wild and untamable, proud, radiant when he smiled, a shining presence wherever he went.
But asleep, he was much quieter. His fair, even features were moon-bright, his lips red and soft, slightly pressed by his posture, giving them a plush look.
He was almost like a sleeping angel—one kiss away from waking.
Bo Yun stood there and watched him for a long time.
He suddenly remembered another time when Jiang Zhuoye had slept like this in front of him.
It had been last year. Jiang Zhuoye had come with his parents to visit his grandfather, but Jiang Zhuoye didn’t want anything to do with him. He slipped away on his own and eventually fell asleep beneath a flowering tree in the garden.
When Bo Yun finally found him, purple chinaberry blossoms covered him, even tangled in his hair.
Jiang Zhuoye was using a thick book as a pillow, wearing a white hoodie, his lashes softly lowered, his expression utterly innocent.
Even he hadn’t had the heart to step forward and disturb that fleeting good dream.
Unfortunately, just ten minutes later, Jiang Zhuoye woke up—and the moment he saw him, his face was filled with disgust.
Thinking of that expression, Bo Yun let out a soft laugh, though a trace of self-mockery flickered in his eyes.
Such a quick change of face.
Moments before, he’d looked dazed and angelic, like an angel opening its eyes. But once their gazes met, the angel showed no mercy—only hostility.
Without thinking further, Bo Yun gently picked Jiang Zhuoye up and left the screening room.
He didn’t know whether Jiang Zhuoye would wake up halfway, whether he would react with the same shock and disgust as last year. At that moment, he didn’t want to think about it.
He carried him through the villa. In the hallway, he ran into a member of the staff, who looked surprised and lowered their voice, asking if help was needed.
But the moment they met Bo Yun’s gaze, they wisely fell silent.
Bo Yun took Jiang Zhuoye back to his own bedroom, lightly wiped his face and hands, struggled to change him into sleepwear, and tucked him into bed.
Throughout it all, Jiang Zhuoye slept deeply.
Only when Bo Yun touched his face and arms did he let out a dissatisfied little hum.
Soon enough, he fell asleep again.
Heartless.
That was what Bo Yun thought in the darkness.
He stood there watching Jiang Zhuoye for a long time before slowly turning to leave.