Lunar Diary

“Secret love was always a one-woman show.

Her joy, her sorrow—all stemmed from him, yet had nothing to do with him.”

—Lunar Diary

—

“Ah-choo—”

Qin Sang couldn’t help but sneeze.

The late autumn night was cold, and standing by the river for so long, she’d inevitably grown chilled. She was dressed lightly—just a mint-green knit dress that hugged her curves, outlining a figure that was neither too thin nor too full, with straight collarbones and a slender neck. She looked like a ruffled bellflower blooming on a spring branch, swaying gracefully. A breeze brushed past, and the dew-laden petals trembled, spilling a droplet of condensed moisture.

The river wind was biting. Qin Sang rubbed her arms, but the creeping chill seeped in from all directions, slipping down the back of her neck. She shivered involuntarily, hunching her shoulders, trembling alone in the bleak autumn wind.

Suddenly, a weight settled on her shoulders, and a shadow fell over her. When she looked up, all she could see was the sharp outline of his Adam’s apple, his collar slightly open, revealing a hint of straight collarbone.

She lowered her head, not daring to look around. The black windbreaker, warm with his body heat, settled on her thin shoulders, as if locking all that warmth around her. She dropped her gaze and breathed in softly—a faint minty scent lingered at the tip of her nose. The smell of mint candy.

“Better now?”

His voice was different from his teenage years—after the change, his tone was deeper, a little raspy, carrying a warm, low timbre.

Qin Sang’s ears felt inexplicably numb, and even her left shoulder, where his fingers had accidentally brushed, seemed to have gone numb, losing all sensation. Her whole body felt weak and limp.

She nodded nervously, her fingers gripping the edge of the jacket as she pulled it closer, her voice muffled. “Much better. Thank you.”

Xie Yuncan raised an eyebrow. “So formal?”

Qin Sang was puzzled and looked up.

The man’s lips curved casually, the arc faint, but his eyes were clear and deep, like a mirror, unsettling to behold.

She felt uneasy under his gaze, nervously gripping the jacket—the metal zipper pull was cool and a bit rough against her fingers. When she pressed harder, it left shallow indentations on her fingertips.

She wasn’t sure if she’d misheard, or if he’d actually said something back then.

A sneeze had interrupted the conversation.

Just then, fireworks shot into the sky, bursting apart with a loud bang, like falling meteors.

She’d only caught a few scattered fragments: “repay” and “feelings.”

Her heart felt like a hydrogen balloon rising high into the sky—erratic, weightless, chaotic. It churned within her, like oil searing over a blazing fire.

She was cautious, yet lost.

It seemed that with just a single sentence, he could effortlessly trap her in an inescapable maze, shrouded in thick fog, unable to see ahead, unable to find her way out.

This feeling was not unfamiliar to her.

She’d looked up to him for so long—throughout all three years of high school, on countless nights known to no one, she’d spent her time in this state of elation and dread.

He had occupied almost every dream of her adolescent years. But—

She knew they were from different worlds, so she’d warned herself countless times: don’t expect too much, don’t dare to hope.

Her feelings had always been quiet.

Not demanding a response, not needing him to know.

Every play must end, and people must part.

When the curtain falls, the audience disperses, and the tea grows cold.

The river still flowed gently, churning ceaselessly, but the fireworks on the opposite bank had stopped. The noisy crowds slowly drifted away, leaving only the river full of flower lanterns, bobbing and swaying, drifting with the current.

Sister Wen had already arrived. The driver had parked nearby and was waiting.

“See you, no need for pleasantries…”

He paused, almost as if teasing her, his brows relaxed, a faint smile curving at the corners of his eyes. “Classmate Qin.”

Qin Sang felt a desolate ache in her heart, but she smiled faintly, pressing her lips together.

Pleasantries? He didn’t understand.

How could she dare to be bold, to feign closeness and approach him? Every brief encounter left her both anxious and overjoyed. But she was afraid—too close, too much said, and her unworthy feelings might be exposed.

Even though she’d longed for him for so long, she never dared to let him know.

“Classmate”—how perfect. Not overly intimate, yet not too distant.

He didn’t know how grateful she was that she still had this “classmate” façade, this identity that allowed her to approach him openly.

Just classmates—to her, that was already the best outcome she could have hoped for.

Qin Sang followed behind him, step by step.

The streetlights were dim, their yellow glow attracting moths that circled blindly in the beams, flapping their wings in vain, unable to escape their cage. In the end, drawn to the light, they threw themselves into the scorching flame without hesitation.

Shadows stretched long across the ground. Occasionally, their shadows overlapped—but soon separated again, touching only briefly before parting.

Qin Sang silently watched the man’s back. He seemed even taller than before, his build stronger than in his youth. His broad shoulders filled out his shirt, his waist was trim, his lines smooth and taut. A short tuft of hair stuck up at the back of his head, like an inadvertently exposed tail.

For a moment, it was as if time had twisted—the lean silhouette of the boy from the past superimposed over the present, shifting and alternating.

In the past, what she’d seen most often was his back.

Sometimes, walking down the corridor, boys would sling their arms around his shoulders, draping themselves over him like they had no bones. He’d look noble and idle, his expression lazy and indifferent.

Sometimes in the cafeteria, she’d stand in the long line, watching that straight-backed figure from across the crowd. Someone beside him must have said something amusing—his usually cool expression would ease, and a faint smile would tug at his lips.

The closest they’d ever been was probably on graduation photo day. She was tall enough among the girls, so she stood in the back row, just slightly to the left in front of him.

Click—the shutter snapped, freezing that moment forever.

After that, everyone went their separate ways, off to their own battles and futures.

The last time she saw him, he’d come back to school to pick up something.

She’d been standing on the third-floor corridor when she saw him walk past below, apparently about to leave campus.

“Classmate Xie.”

She heard someone call him.

A girl rushed out of the teaching building, blocking his path. She stood before him, nervous and flushed, saying something.

Too far away to hear—only the endless wind rustling through fallen leaves.

She didn’t need to hear it to know what it was. A confession—at the last moment before parting, seizing the chance to bare her heart.

He must have turned her down. She watched as the girl went from brimming with hope to utterly dejected. After he left, she stood there for a long time.

Suddenly, she burst into loud sobs, inconsolable even with a friend’s comfort. Through her tears, she choked out: “I’ve liked him for so long—since middle school, when we were in the same school. It’s okay if he doesn’t remember me, doesn’t know me. I never expected anything to come of it.”

“I knew we’d never see each other again, that’s why I dared to say it… but it hurts so much.”

“Why? Why do I have to like him this much, while he knows nothing—doesn’t know how much courage it took for me to get to this moment?”

“It’s not fair.”

Qin Sang’s heart ached, a bitterness rising in her throat.

There was no “why.” No fairness.

Secret love was always a one-woman show.

Her joy, her sorrow—all stemmed from him, yet had nothing to do with him.

Feelings were always a game where the one who fell first lost.

She didn’t dare, wouldn’t take that step.

So in the end, she never even got a chance to say goodbye.

The car was parked by the roadside. Before getting in, Qin Sang took off the jacket, holding the lapels, her fingers brushing against the cool metal buttons. After a moment, she handed it back. “Thank you for the jacket, and…”

She paused, offering a small smile. “Thank you for helping me get that promotional film opportunity.”

Even though Xie Yuncan had said he hadn’t, she knew that with her current standing, she couldn’t have reached a resource of this caliber.

Besides, before leaving the restaurant, when Xie Yuncan had gone to settle the bill, Shen Yi had said a few words to her.

Shen Yi must truly have loved the film Letter from Afar, because as they talked, he inevitably touched upon details of the movie.

Shen Yi said: “I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, Ms. Qin, but I honestly think the role you’ve played that can never be surpassed is Yu Sibe in Letter from Afar.”

“The hardest thing in acting is to blur the line between performance and reality—to make the false seem true. Only when the actor truly enters the role can the audience be drawn in as well.”

“I could tell…”

He paused, his eyes behind his glasses sharp as mirrors. “You weren’t acting.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry into your private life. But I felt that back then, you must have loved someone you couldn’t see, someone you couldn’t have—that’s why you played it so vividly.”

The one who enters the role feels the emotion; the observer sees clearly.

Shen Yi’s perceptiveness made her heart skip.

But she didn’t deny it. Instead, she nodded in admission. “Yes, back then, I wasn’t playing Yu Sibe. I was…”

She paused briefly. “I was Yu Sibe.”

Shen Yi: “If I’m not mistaken, Xu Jiashu is based on Xie, right?”

She was startled, but didn’t deny it. She just smiled bitterly.

Shen Yi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Only a real-life Xu Jiashu—someone outstanding enough—could make you hold on for so many years. If it’s Xie, I can understand.”

“To be honest, you weren’t our first choice for this promotional film. Two of my colleagues were arguing fiercely over you when deciding the cast. And Xie happened to be there that day.”

That day Xie Yuncan had come by when they were in a meeting debating the shortlist. Several candidates had been proposed—Qin Sang was the most popular among the women, but recent public opinion around her was unfavorable, so they’d been undecided.

The discussion grew heated, with two colleagues going at it, faces red.

“I think Chen Yan is great—high profile, good image, perfect as a representative of masculine strength. Most importantly, he’s never had any negative press since debuting. He fits our criteria perfectly.”

Another female colleague objected: “What do you mean ‘representative of masculine strength’? We have to differentiate by gender now? That’s sexist.”

“How is that sexist? Don’t make it into something it’s not,” the male colleague scoffed. “Besides, you know perfectly well the gender ratio at the Aerospace Institute.”

“And look at the person you picked—is she even reliable?”

“Yes, I admit she’s competent and has been getting buzz after winning that award recently. But we’re not some third-rate media outlet or amateur PR firm—do we need this kind of buzz?”

“You know what Qin Sang’s track record is like, don’t you? She’s on the trending searches eight out of ten days, plagued by rumors. You don’t need me to remind you what negative press she’s had. The internet never forgets—just a quick search turns up piles of it. Not to mention her recent public fallout with her old agency. Frankly, that makes her look like an ungrateful snake.”

“What do you think we’re doing here? Hiring someone with a bad reputation, endless gossip, and a constant risk of scandal to shoot a promotional film? Are you crazy or am I? What if she implodes one day? Have you thought about that—all the effort and hard work from our colleagues would be wasted. Do you want the entire News and Publicity Department to pay for your personal preferences? Do you have any respect for this profession, for the researchers working on the front lines?”

“You can be a fan all you want, but for heaven’s sake, keep work and personal feelings separate. Be professional, okay?”

The male colleague was aggressive, full of sarcasm, leaving no room for rebuttal. He clearly looked down on his colleague’s perceived bias.

The female colleague turned pale with anger, wanting to argue back, but the words died in her throat.

His remarks were harsh, laced with strong personal bias.

Shen Yi frowned, about to intervene, when the person who’d been observing from the start of the meeting suddenly spoke up coldly:

“China has over a hundred million science and technology workers, of whom forty million are women—accounting for forty percent, far above the global average. Scientific research has no gender divide, nor is it the exclusive domain of any one side. There’s no need to emphasize reductive labels like ‘masculine strength.’ By bringing that up, you’re erasing the contributions and efforts of female researchers.”

“If you truly respect your profession, you should know that the most fundamental principles for a media professional are fairness, objectivity, and neutrality. You should have basic respect for every occupation and every matter. Only then can your words carry weight.”

“Do you think you’ve achieved that?”

Xie Yuncan asked with a sarcastic retort. The male colleague, who’d been arguing fiercely just moments before, opened his mouth, but had no rebuttal. He fell silent, his expression grim.

Shen Yi was still surprised. He raised an eyebrow. “To be honest, I’ve known Xie for a long time, but I’ve never seen him speak up for anyone. You know how he is—pretty aloof, always maintains his distance. He doesn’t interfere in others’ decisions or meddle in their lives. Someone who’s so good at keeping boundaries is hard to get close to. Even Zhou and I, after all these years, it’s hard to say we’re truly close.”

“But that day—it was the first time I’d ever seen him step up to defend someone.”

Though Qin Sang had sensed something was off, she’d had no idea about this convoluted backstory.

She was stunned for a long moment.

Shen Yi was curious: “Don’t you plan on telling him? Even though you’ve liked him for so many years?”

Snapping back to the present, Qin Sang paused for a couple of seconds, then shook her head gently. “Liking someone is my own business. I don’t need his consent or his response. What difference does it make whether he knows or not?”

“If possible, could you please keep this secret for me? I…”

She lowered her lashes. “I don’t want to make myself look pathetic.”

Once her feelings were laid bare, she’d no longer be able to act with ease, nor could she in good conscience use the identity of “classmate” to be near him.

Shen Yi paused, looking at her for a long time before replying: “Don’t worry, Ms. Qin. This is your privacy—I won’t say a word.”

“All things considered, I owe you a big favor.”

She’d stood up for him and made an enemy of Tong Junjie. Tong was vindictive, using his power to suppress and retaliate against her, which had cost her an endorsement deal.

But to her, it hadn’t mattered much—lose one jewelry endorsement, another would come along.

Qin Sang took a breath to steady herself, curving her lips in a faint smile. “Thank you for speaking up for me. I know you did it because you felt indebted about what happened that day. But I acted willingly, and I don’t regret it. So I hope you won’t feel guilty either.”

She knew him—he was a man of boundaries, unwilling to owe anyone anything. Because in this world, debts of gratitude were the hardest to repay, and the most dangerous to accrue.

But what she wanted least of all was his pity or guilt.

Qin Sang took a deep breath, looking up at him. “You don’t owe me anything. Let’s… call it even.”

Xie Yuncan stood before her, tall and lean, the dim lamplight falling upon him like a scene from another lifetime. He was still the same—cool, proud.

Alone in the night, with no one around, his silhouette stood clear and distinct, like a freehand ink painting brushed on paper.

“If,” he said, his gaze clear and serious, “I said it wasn’t because I owe you?”