The Moon Runs to Me

“Little Bear.”

Xie Yuncan was truly a man of measured restraint. He knew propriety, understood etiquette, and observed boundaries. In all his dealings with others, he knew when to stop. People often said he was detached—detached from emotions, detached from people. It was like a wisp of smoke, elusive and intangible, impossible to grasp. Just when you thought you were lost in it, the mist would suddenly dissipate, leaving you unable to tell whether you were standing on a cloud ladder or a cliff’s edge.

Qin Sang felt as though she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, swaying dangerously. She knew that beneath that chasm lay an abyss—one wrong step and she’d fall into eternal ruin.

And yet, like a moth drawn to flame, she was irresistibly pulled toward it, heedless of the danger.

Qin Sang stood rooted to the spot, her movements sluggish, her reaction so slow it was as if she’d been born missing a nerve. She was anxious and unsettled—unable to say whether she felt joy or panic. All she felt was confusion.

As if heaven and earth had suddenly become void, everything around her blurred into emptiness. In the deep autumn night, he simply stood there, watching her. Just watching.

His expression was not its usual cool and proud aloofness, but had become a calm, deep pool—one that could drown anyone who fell into it.

Qin Sang felt like someone drowning—breathless, heart racing. She instinctively stepped back, wanting to run, desperate to flee.

She lowered her head, instinctively wanting to hide.

To close her eyes. To plug her ears. So she wouldn’t be so easily lured in, her soul lost.

For three years, she’d dreamed countless dreams involving him—but never overstepped. Even in the most absurd fantasies, she’d never dared imagine that she and he could have any kind of future.

Qin Sang stayed silent, a bitter ache rising in her eyes. That bitterness was like a tangled spiderweb, wrapping around her, encasing her in a cocoon.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

Her thoughts were already a chaotic mess, yet she forced herself to hold on, her voice trembling: “Classmate Xie, you really shouldn’t say things like that. It’s easy to be misunderstood.”

She must look terrible right now—flustered and pathetic, terrified that her shameful feelings would be exposed, yet secretly thrilled by his ambiguous words.

Xie Yuncan frowned slightly, his gaze turning somber. “Sorry. I made you uncomfortable.”

She kept her head down, refusing to meet his eyes. “My house is close. You can stop here.”

With that, she fled—hurrying away as if any slower would drag her back into the abyss.

Qin Sang retreated to her room and hid herself, ignoring whatever Wen Shuyu asked, offering no answers.

Wen Shuyu knocked and came in, finding her buried under the covers. She paused, then asked softly, “Sang Sang, what’s wrong?”

After a long silence, a muffled voice came from beneath the blanket: “I’m fine.”

Wen Shuyu sat down and smiled. “You’re such a grown-up now, but you’re still like when you were little—hiding whenever something upsets you. Do you remember when you were small and we went to your aunt’s for New Year’s? She said a few things that upset you, and when we came home, you hid under the covers and wouldn’t come out, no matter how your father and I tried to coax you.”

Qin Sang finally emerged from the covers, her eyes red, her voice low. “That was because Auntie went too far. She said I had no manners, that I was a little beggar, that Dad was useless and dependent on others. She said we were all parasites, living off Grandpa.”

Wen Shuyu was very patient. “Are you?”

She shook her head. “I just hate her. She always looks down on us. We never relied on Grandpa—not once.”

Even when times were hardest, when money was tight, they’d never asked the Wen family for a cent.

“Exactly.” Wen Shuyu kept smiling. “What others say about you doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know who you are.”

“The most important thing isn’t what others think—it’s what you think.”

Wen Shuyu was always gentle. No matter how mischievous Qin Sang had been as a child, no matter what she’d done, her mother never got angry, only offered endless patience.

Wen Shuyu looked at her with great patience. “Are you ready to tell me now? What happened to make you unhappy?”

Qin Sang’s nose suddenly stung. She thought for a long time before muttering, “Mom, do you remember that little bear I used to love so much?”

“Of course I do.” Wen Shuyu chuckled. “The first time you ever fought with your Cousin Penny was over that little bear, wasn’t it?”

When she was little, she’d stayed at the Wen household for a while. Her parents had been too busy to care for her, so they’d left her with her grandparents.

At that time, Aunt Minzhu and Cousin Penny were also staying at the Wen house. But Aunt Minzhu had never been kind to her and looked down on her parents. She and Cousin Penny stayed on the second floor, while Qin Sang lived on the first floor with the housemaid.

Even living under the same roof, they rarely crossed paths. Aunt Minzhu would often take Cousin Penny out. When they did eat at home, Qin Sang was never allowed to sit at the same table—she ate in the kitchen with the maid.

Thankfully, the maid was very kind to her and often secretly gave her extra treats. Though she wasn’t happy at the Wen house, she was content, because the maid was good to her.

Her parents always said: be content and you’ll be happy.

So even though she disliked Aunt Minzhu and Cousin Penny, she still liked being at the Wen house—liked the maid, liked the little swing in the back garden, liked standing under the dome and gazing at the stars.

The universe was boundless, the starry sky radiant, and she was just a tiny speck of dust in it—a grain of sand, barely visible.

Just like that plain-looking brown plush bear. It had been a gift her uncle brought back from England, meant for his two nieces to choose from. Cousin Penny had picked the more beautiful Barbie Dreamhouse. Only she had chosen the plush bear.

Though the little brown bear looked drab and unremarkable, she loved it dearly. She dressed it up, cleaned it, and carried it with her everywhere—to meals, to bed, even while doing homework.

To this day, she remembered exactly what that bear looked like: brown fur, black button eyes, utterly plain except for the bright red tie around its neck.

She cherished that bear—it was hers, and hers alone.

But later, Cousin Penny grew bored of her own toys. When she saw Qin Sang sitting on the sofa watching TV with the bear in her arms, she swaggered over and declared, “I want this bear.”

When Qin Sang refused, Penny tried to snatch it, yelling, “This is mine! Mom said everything in the Wen house is mine. This is my home. My uncle is mine, and what he gives is mine too.”

“You’re just a thief. Why are you clinging to my family’s things?”

“I’m not a thief. The bear is mine.”

Cousin Penny was three years older. At the time, Penny was seven, and Qin Sang was only four.

She clung to the bear stubbornly, refusing to let go. No matter how much Penny hit or scratched her—her arms bruised purple and blue, her skin broken—she wouldn’t give in.

In the end, the bear was torn apart, cotton stuffing spilling out. Penny wailed, “Waaah—you ruined my bear!”

Four-year-old Qin Sang was at a loss. She hugged the broken bear with her bruised arms, sobbing, too afraid to make a sound.

It was her bear. The one she’d chosen, the one she’d cared for. Her bear had been destroyed.

Aunt Minzhu, roused by the crying, rushed over. After learning what happened, she lashed out: “Pah! Ill-bred little thing. Who do you think you are, some princess? Living in my house, eating my food, and now you have the nerve to fight my daughter over a toy? A filthy little wretch from a beggar’s den—just like your father. He’s a freeloader, and you’re a little thief. Have you no idea who you are? You dare to covet things that aren’t yours? You dare to grab whatever you want?”

She shoved Qin Sang, who stumbled into the sofa. In the end, Penny snatched the bear away.

But Penny hadn’t really wanted the bear—she’d just found it novel because she didn’t have one. Once she had it, she lost interest. The bear was broken and useless anyway.

Penny had a whole room full of toys. Her favorite was still the Barbie Dreamhouse. Her bear…

Her bear was gone. She didn’t know where Penny had thrown it.

Later, when her uncle returned and learned they’d fought over the bear, he had someone buy an identical one from abroad and gave it to her.

But it wasn’t the same. Her bear was gone forever.

There would never be another bear she’d poured all her heart into, nurtured and cherished like that one.

After that…

She never dared to covet anything that wasn’t hers again.

Not the bear. And not Xie Yuncan.

She’d walked alone through the long river of time for so, so long—so long she’d almost forgotten where she was going.

Forgotten where she’d started, forgotten where the end was.

Like that jar of folded paper stars she’d never been able to give away. They were her only solace in those dark, silent days—her unspoken love, her unvoiced hopes, transformed into dim, dusty stars, sealed away.

No one knew. No one asked.

Then one day, that dream buried deepest was suddenly dragged into the light.

She was terrified, lost. And in her panic, she’d fled in disgrace.

Qin Sang rubbed her eyes haphazardly until they were red and raw, the burning ache finally loosening the tears she’d held back for so long.

She couldn’t help but cry—a suppressed sob, just like when she was four years old, not daring to make a sound. Her voice was low and choked, trembling uncontrollably. “I think I’ve found my little bear again.”

Her words came out incoherently, her mind in turmoil. The bear Penny had thrown away when she was four had left a scar that never healed.

Now, at twenty-six, Qin Sang no longer dared to long for that bear that didn’t belong to her. Even though she’d yearned for it for so long, even though her heart was full of love she could never express.

“But I’m too afraid to want it anymore. I don’t dare to hope for that bear again.”