Chapter : 6 "He Belongs To Her's Now Not Me"
Shu Yao did not answer.
He only stood.
Slowly. Quietly. Like a cloud rising from the edge of dusk.
He picked up his bowl with both hands, carried it to the counter, and turned without a sound. His chair didn't scrape. His feet didn't stumble. He passed Bai Qi without so much as a glance, without letting a single thread of their conversation remain to catch.
"Shu Yao," Bai Qi called gently behind him.
But by then—
He was already gone.
---
The lock turned with a soft, familiar click.
Back in his room, Shu Yao leaned his forehead against the door for a moment. Just breathed. Inhaled the stillness like it was medicine. Then he moved, slipping off his slippers, gathering his scattered notebooks. He sat at his desk and finished his homework with the kind of focus that only comes from needing to forget.
Outside, the evening deepened.
And with it—voices.
Laughter again. Qing Yue's voice, bright and fond. Bai Qi's lower, confident. Shu Yao paused, pen in hand, as the sound filtered faintly through the open slit of his window. He stood and crossed the room barefoot, careful not to disturb the curtain as he peeked through.
Down below, the driveway glistened faintly from earlier rain.
A sleek black car waited at the curb, its windows polished like secrets. The driver, in uniform, stepped out and opened the door with the precision of long practice.
Bai Qi stood just beneath the porch light, smirking.
Qing Yue leaned up and kissed him.
Not shy. Not rushed. Just... naturally. As if it was hers to give and his to take.
Shu Yao's breath caught.
He didn't move. Not an inch.
Another kiss—short, soft. A "last goodbye," her voice floated faintly up.
And Bai Qi, with that effortless charm, waved as he slid into the passenger seat, one hand raised behind the glass like a promise he didn't know he was breaking.
The car pulled away. Tires whispered against wet gravel. The red taillights blinked once, then disappeared into the curve of night.
Shu Yao let the curtain fall from his fingers.
He turned back into the hush of his room, no words leaving his lips, only the echo of that kiss burned behind his eyes.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
For a long while, he didn't blink.
> He kissed her again.
The thought repeated.
Soft as a whisper.
Sharp as a blade.
He kissed her again.
And it hurt.
So much.
It hurt in ways that didn't bleed but still left bruises. In places no bandage could reach. His arms slowly curled around himself, his back bent, his knees pulled up—and he let his head fall against them like the weight of it had become too much.
The first tear came like a drop of ink on parchment.
Then another. Then another.
No sobs. No gasping. Just a quiet unraveling of everything he'd tried to hold together.
His beautiful brown eyes filled with sorrow, their lashes trembling beneath the weight of heartbreak. He didn't wipe the tears away. He didn't hide from them.
He simply endured them.
Alone.
Where no one could hear the broken.
---
A few minutes passed before he lifted his head.
Eyes still glassy, he reached into his schoolbag and took out his journal again. The page from earlier still waited—unfinished, like his thoughts.
He turned to a new page and wrote in a hand that trembled slightly:
> They kissed again.
But it hurts so much.
It always hurts.
And I don't know how to stop.
The pen hovered. Then stilled.
He couldn't write anymore.
His heart was too tired.
He slipped the journal back into his bag, gently, like tucking away a fragile part of himself. Then he reached for his pillow, hugged it tight to his chest, and curled onto his side.
The room remained quiet.
The world remained unchanged.
Only the sound of his breathing remained—uneven, soft, the sound of someone holding in a scream by replacing it with silence.
He closed his eyes, clutching the pillow tighter.
And cried again.
Not for attention. Not for pity.
Just because there was no space left inside to hold it all.
Sleep did not take Shu Yao gently.
It crept like a thief—uninvited, unwelcome—dragging its cold fingers across his back as he curled tighter into himself. His lashes fluttered, wet from weeping, and slowly, under the weight of exhaustion and ache, his eyes slipped shut.
But rest was not his salvation.
Sleep had never been his friend.
It was a mirror that twisted the truth. A stage where longing played itself out again and again in cruel rewrites.
---
In the dream—
The world was lit gold and white.
A wedding pavilion arched high above, draped in sheer silk and shimmering flowers that spilled like soft waterfalls from the ceiling. Music floated, sweet and slow, and the air shimmered with perfume and soft murmurs.
Qing Yue stood beneath the arch in a gown of pearl and starlight, lace trailing like water behind her. She was radiant. Breathless. A blossom in full bloom. Her smile was painted with future, her eyes luminous with love.
Guests filled every seat—dressed in jewels and silks, faces warm with joy.
Shu Yao stood off to the side.
Dressed in quiet grey, soft as dust.
A velvet cushion trembled in his hands.
Upon it—two rings. Silver and perfect, like promises sharpened into circles.
They glowed under the soft lights, cradled in crimson silk.
He was the ring bearer.
Of course, his dream-self whispered. Of course I am.
And then—he came.
The groom.
Bai Qi.
Clad in a fitted black suit, eyes gleaming with confidence, his hair swept back like midnight waves. A smirk curled his lips as he walked down the aisle—not nervous, not shy, but proud. Sure.
He reached Qing Yue and she, laughing, leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.
The crowd swooned.
Someone sighed. Someone cheered.
Shu Yao stood motionless, the cushion suddenly far too heavy in his hands.
Why am I holding this?
Why am I still here?
Then Bai Qi looked at him.
Just for a breath. Just one moment.
Their eyes locked—Bai Qi's unreadable, Shu Yao's wide with heartbreak.
For a heartbeat, Shu Yao thought—He's waiting for me. Not her. Me.
But the moment passed.
A man in the front row turned and glared.
A woman behind him clicked her tongue.
Everyone was watching him now.
He's stalling the wedding.
Why is he still standing there?
Why does he look like that?
Their gazes pressed down like chains.
Shu Yao looked at the cushion in his hands.
The rings gleamed back at him, indifferent.
And so—he stepped forward.
Each step cost something. A piece of breath. A crack in his ribs.
He reached the stage, chest tight, vision blurring. His hand trembled as he lifted the first ring.
"He lifted the velvet cushion"
She giggled softly, placing the ring on Bai Qi's finger.
Applause.
Everyone clapped.
Except Shu Yao.
He couldn't move. His breath caught. His lips stayed closed, pale and pressed together.
Then—it was Bai Qi's turn.
He reached for the second ring.
Slid it gently onto Qing Yue's finger.
More applause.
Louder this time. Thundering.
Then—without hesitation—Bai Qi kissed her. Firm, certain, his hand resting lightly on her waist as the world erupted in cheers and flower petals.
Even their mother stood from her seat, clapping with teary eyes.
Proud. Pleased.
The dream fractured at its edges.
Shu Yao turned around.
And ran.
No one noticed.
No one stopped him.
Not even Bai Qi.
He ran—through petals, through lights, through the echoing cheers—until the silk and gold blurred behind him.
He didn't know where he was going. Only that he had to flee.
The velvet cushion dropped from his hands mid-stride.
And then—he fell.
Somewhere between memory and madness, he dropped to his knees.
The sky above was blank. The air too still.
He pressed his palms to the earth, shoulders heaving, heart caving in on itself. The sob clawed up his throat like something wild. And then—it broke free.
A scream.
Raw. Wrecked.
A sound pulled from the marrow of him, torn through his lungs until his voice cracked and shattered.
"I loved you…"
But the words stayed inside.
Because they were never meant to be heard.
Because Bai Qi wasn't his. Not anymore.
Not ever, really.
The boy with onyx eyes and a wolf-cut smile had been taken—
By someone warm.
Someone kind.
Someone worthy.
His sister.
And Shu Yao—
was just the ghost who watched.
He stayed where he had fallen.
The world around him blurred, a dream melting at the edges like watercolor left in rain—but he remained sharp. Real. Too real.
The ground beneath him was soft—green grass, damp with dew or perhaps memory. It clung to the fabric of his dream-self like fingers begging him not to rise.
His hands lay splayed at his sides.
His body trembled with the aftershocks of crying, that fragile place beyond sobs where breath comes shallow and eyes stay wet, unblinking.
Above him, the sky stretched vast and pale, its color neither day nor night—just something in-between, like sorrow suspended in air.
Wind moved gently across the meadow, brushing his cheeks like a hand too late to comfort. It carried no words, only the hush of things never spoken.
Shu Yao lay still.
His cheek rested against the earth, eyelashes damp, eyes glassy. The hollows beneath them were shadowed, painted with tired bruises of pain that even dreams could not hide.
His lips parted—just slightly—but no sound came.
What was there to say?
What language could be spoken in a dream that had already broken him?
He closed his eyes.
Slowly.
The way a door closes behind someone leaving forever.
And in that moment, the grass seemed to hold him a little closer. The earth curved beneath him like a cradle for a heart too tired to keep beating the same way.
In the distance, the sound of the wedding had long faded.
No more cheers.
No more clapping.
Only wind. And grass. And the silence of a boy who loved too quietly.
The rings were gone. The cushion discarded. The laughter now belonged to someone else.
And he—
He became part of the field.
Still, tear-streaked, and folded gently into the fabric of a world where he had always been the one standing apart.
Here, in this soft dreamsoil, there were no curtains to peek behind. No doorframes to hide in. No voices calling his name just to forget it moments later.
Just green grass, warm wind, and the ache of a heart too full of unsaid things.
Here, at last, he let go.
Not of love.
But of hope.
And in the hush of dream's breath, Shu Yao slept again—curled not like a boy, but like something wilting.
A petal closing.
A story pausing.
A heart folding in on itself, waiting for no one.