Behind every adult lies a child sealed away by time, frozen in growth.
A twisted, cruel childhood, tempered by time, had simmered into an immunity shot. It silently pierced Xia Xiqing’s skin, injected into his bloodstream, stripping him of any capacity to feel love from his very core—and robbing him of faith in it.
A person is not a collection of organs, but a collection of experiences.
Zhou Ziheng held Xia Xiqing close, kissing away his tears with infinite tenderness.
“With me here, this door will never close again.” His hand gently patted Xia Xiqing’s back, tracing the slight curve of his spine.
He no longer wished to judge all that Xia Xiqing’s parents had done—it held no meaning now. He only wanted to be with Xia Xiqing, to let him live once more in an overflowing sea of love, to experience the free life he desired.
To make him understand he had always deserved to be loved.
Xia Xiqing’s hand hung limply at Zhou Ziheng’s side. After recounting the past, he seemed utterly drained, devoid of strength. Even his heart beat like a dying creature, slow and labored within his hollow chest.
Zhou Ziheng tentatively touched the wound he had never dared to touch before. The first time he saw it, Xia Xiqing had been completely unconscious, but this time he was awake. He lifted Xia Xiqing and laid him on the small bed, leaning down to kiss that horrific scar.
The two of them curled up on that small bed, Zhou Ziheng holding him tightly in his arms. They clung to each other like two drifters on a tiny boat, relying on one another, knowing that the slightest misstep could send them plunging into the vast ocean.
Zhou Ziheng’s gaze was unbearably tender. Xia Xiqing suddenly felt like a despicable person, as if he were exploiting this painful experience to manipulate Zhou Ziheng’s sympathy.
He knew Zhou Ziheng was profoundly kind, knew he cared for him deeply. Yet he still spoke these words to cause him sorrow, to make his heart ache, only to be repaid tenfold, a hundredfold, with tenderness. Such tactics were truly cunning to the extreme.
Yet Xia Xiqing had no other choice. Experiences could be concealed, but the blood and genes flowing through his veins could not. His greatest fear was becoming more like his mother with each passing day. He’d heard similar remarks in gossip: You and your philandering father are cut from the same cloth.
“Cut from the same cloth.”
Only Xia Xiqing knew he truly resembled his mother. Gloomy, arrogant, using every means to maintain a veneer of nobility—tear away the beautiful façade, and beneath lay pus, blood, and decay.
“I don’t want to become her.”
After a long silence, Xia Xiqing suddenly uttered these words, catching Zhou Ziheng off guard. But his surprise lasted less than a second before he understood exactly who Xia Xiqing was referring to.
“You won’t. You’re different from her. You’re kind and strong, and…” Zhou Ziheng captured his hand, lifting it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “You have me.”
Xia Xiqing lifted his eyes to meet Zhou Ziheng’s, his gaze still carrying an indescribable melancholy.
“We belong to two different worlds.” Xia Xiqing’s innate avoidance of love surfaced once more. “You’re wonderful—the best person I’ve ever met. But I’m the exact opposite. We stand on opposite sides in every way.”
As if fearing Zhou Ziheng would argue, he hurriedly continued, “The cruelest thing isn’t false love. The cruelest thing is when you fall for someone—that moment is real. You truly love them, and they genuinely love you back. But…” He suddenly choked up. Xia Xiqing found it absurd—just the thought of that moment being real was unbearable for him. This was so unlike him.
“But what?”
He took a deep breath. “But feelings will eventually wear thin. You stop loving them.” He looked at Zhou Ziheng, his eyes evading emotion. “That moment was real too.”
Zhou Ziheng finally understood why Xia Xiqing resisted forming intimate relationships.
“So,” he murmured, his voice deep as he traced Xia Xiqing’s ear, “you rejected me not because you didn’t like me, but because you feared that final moment.”
Caught off guard by his piercing insight, Xia Xiqing’s heart skipped a beat, pounding against his chest. Zhou Ziheng always had his own logic; no matter what he said, he always hit the nail on the head.
But that wasn’t what Xia Xiqing meant. “What I’m saying is, you’re attracted to me now because of a temporary surge of hormones. But once that passion boils over, it’ll inevitably cool down. And when it does, you’ll be the one getting hurt.”
Zhou Ziheng’s gaze remained unwavering. “Why are you so certain it will cool down?”
“Because we’re fundamentally polar opposites.” Xia Xiqing’s tone hardened, like suddenly raised barbs. “Forcing completely opposite things together never ends well.”
Zhou Ziheng suddenly smiled, releasing his embrace around Xia Xiqing. Xia Xiqing frowned. “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m delighted. I just thought of a perfectly scientific example to prove my point.” He shifted down, curling up opposite her, and cleared his throat with a couple of coughs. “You say we’re complete opposites. Let’s assume that’s true for now.”
“Nerd.” Xia Xiqing shot him a glance. Zhou Ziheng pressed his index finger lightly against his lips, then smiled. “You know, I just remembered our second recording session. Remember that cosmic poetry about the Big Bang?”
“According to that theory, one trillionth of a second after the explosion, the universe contained particles—electrons, quarks, positrons, antiquarks. In short, matter and antimatter particles.” “A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. Xia Xiqing watched him smile and instinctively reached out his index finger, wanting to poke the upturned corner of Zhou’s mouth.
But Zhou Ziheng dodged it.
His outstretched fingertip hovered in midair. Zhou Ziheng extended his own index finger, gently touching Xia Xiqing’s fingertip. He smiled, his eyes bright.
“In the primordial chaos of the universe, when a particle and its antiparticle meet, they collide and annihilate into photons.”
After speaking, he gently enclosed the fingertips that had just touched within his palm.
Xia Xiqing finally understood the saying that the heart and fingers are connected. His heartbeat seemed to have migrated to his fingertips, now pounding fiercely against Zhou Ziheng’s warm palm.
“Under the universe’s intense heat, photons continued generating pairs of particles and antiparticles. Like a chain reaction, they kept colliding and annihilating. Here lies a mystery scientists still haven’t solved: why did only positive matter survive in the end? No one knows. We only understand that the survival rate of these particles is one in a billion.” He released his hand, and as his fingers parted, the small rose on his ring finger became faintly visible.
“Then, the universe’s temperature kept dropping, until the electrons were pulled into atomic nuclei, forming atoms. Countless atoms, drawn together by gravity, became stars. Some exploded, others remained—like…” He pulled an orange lollipop from his pocket. “The Sun—a tiny star born in some corner of the cosmos.” He peeled off the wrapper of the “Sun” lollipop and placed it in Xia Xiqing’s hand.
“Billions of years later, this small star began attracting other heavy matter and gas, forming planets.” He took out a blueberry-flavored candy and clutched it in his hand. “Like Earth.”
He held the blueberry candy like a tiny airplane, circling around the “little sun” held in Xia Xiqing’s hand. “After an incredibly long time, rare liquid water appeared on this small planet. Slowly, life forms emerged. Finally, finally, you and I appeared.”
Zhou Ziheng gazed into Xia Xiqing’s eyes, his gaze gentler than starlight.
“All this was created by those surviving particles. Every part of your body and mine, this bed, this room, Earth, the Sun, the galaxy—all stem from those one-in-a-billion encounters. Ultimately, from the meeting of particles and antiparticles.”
The lengthy cosmic origin story concluded here. Zhou Ziheng leaned in and kissed Xia Xiqing’s eyes.
“So, when completely opposite things meet, perhaps they create miracles.”
With that, Zhou Ziheng cupped Xia Xiqing’s face and pressed his lips to his. A fleeting kiss, yet in that instant of separation, it stole his heart. An attraction defying even the laws of gravity.
“Argument concluded.”
He couldn’t win.
All those years of experience, all those so-called unbeatable victories, all the hearts he’d toyed with—they crumbled before this man. In the moment he tried to surrender, he realized he’d long since lost his weapons.
Each of us is made up of countless particles, each surviving against odds of one in a hundred thousand, scattered among billions.
So our meeting is a miracle created by countless tiny particles relentlessly colliding and annihilating each other.
Precious and rare.
The two of them curled up on this small single bed all night, then rose hurriedly before dawn to return to the film crew for shooting. As Xia Xiqing locked the villa’s front door, his heart suddenly sank heavily.
He looked up at the small balcony on the third floor, where he thought he glimpsed a little boy waving at him with a beaming smile.
“What’s wrong?”
Xia Xiqing smiled to himself, then turned to glance at Zhou Ziheng.
“Got up too early. Must be seeing things.”
After wrapping up filming, Song Nian had called Zhou Ziheng repeatedly and sent him numerous WeChat messages, all ignored. He’d encountered similar situations before during filming. He usually offered an explanation, making it clear he had absolutely no romantic interest. But Song Nian was relentlessly persistent. Knowing her team bought trending topics for publicity stunts, even someone as kind-hearted as Zhou Ziheng couldn’t help but feel repelled.
Moreover, his heart was now wholly devoted to Xia Xiqing, leaving no room for anything else. His daily life revolved solely around filming and his affection for Xia Xiqing.
[Song Nian: I know you don’t feel that way about me, but I am a girl after all. You guys just left me hanging at the wrap party. With all those reporters visiting the set, I have my pride too.]
Zhou Ziheng saw her final message. If it were anyone else, he would have apologized. But toward Song Nian, he felt no remorse.
[Zhou Ziheng: Stop pretending. Those reporters were arranged by your team. I had no obligation to intervene.]
After sending that, Zhou Ziheng blocked Song Nian. Most celebrities wouldn’t do this—even if they fell out, they wouldn’t sever ties completely. But Zhou Ziheng’s background gave him a natural barrier from the moment he entered the industry. To him, this seemingly ruthless move was nothing out of the ordinary.
The following days featured crucial scenes. As Gao Kun’s illness worsened, Zhou Ziheng spent increasingly longer hours on makeup. Sometimes night shoots stretched into the early hours, forcing him to rise before dawn for another styling session.
Xia Xiqing pitied him, saying he was pushing himself too hard, but Zhou Ziheng found joy in the process.
After finally wrapping a scene at the CDC, Kun Cheng, Zhou Ziheng, and Xia Xiqing sat in the car. As Xia Xiqing watched the patients waving goodbye outside, a pang of sadness suddenly gripped his heart.
Truthfully, during the most chaotic period of his personal life, he had genuinely wondered if he might contract AIDS. He’d even thought that if he did get infected, it wouldn’t matter. Life felt meaningless anyway—he didn’t even know why he was still alive. Was it to spite Xia Yunkai? Or simply to avoid being looked down upon?
His gaze shifted from the window to the car interior, where Zhou Ziheng was discussing the scene with the director.
Almost instantly, Zhou Ziheng looked back at him, flashed a smile, then carried on discussing the next scene’s approach with the director as if nothing had happened.
That single smile felt like a deliberate answer meant just for him.
He’d clung to life for twenty-five years, only to meet Zhou Ziheng.
It doesn’t seem like such a loss, after all.
“Actually, with the government providing free medication now, treating AIDS patients isn’t nearly as difficult as it used to be,” Zhou Ziheng sighed, lowering his gaze to the script in his hands. “For them, the psychological pressure is probably far greater than the physical suffering.”
“People’s views on AIDS are still too outdated. Discrimination and fear stem from ignorance, and these attitudes are hard to change. But visual works can spread awareness.” Kun Cheng patted Zhou Ziheng’s shoulder. “That’s one of the reasons we make movies.”
Zhou Ziheng lifted his head as Xiao Luo handed over several cans of coffee. He took one and tossed it to Xia Xiqing, who caught it and looked up at him.
“We’ve got a heavy responsibility on our shoulders.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling.
Xia Xiqing smiled too, propping his chin on his hand as he gazed out the car window.
He used to despise idealists—those overconfident souls who fancied themselves world-savers, striving to become indispensable cogs in the universe.
In truth, many so-called idealists were merely severe cases of savior complex. Most ultimately perished in the unbridgeable chasm between their ideals and reality.
They fall hard.
This dazzling idealist.
He shone so brightly that Xia Xiqing couldn’t bear to pull him down, even while watching. He hoped Zhou Ziheng could soar freely across the boundless skies of liberty.
Gazing at Zhou Ziheng’s face reflected in the car window, Xia Xiqing couldn’t help but smile.
If he could, he would gladly keep gazing up at him like this forever.
The scene shifted back to the rented apartment they’d once shared—Jiang Tong’s place. When Gao Kun was diagnosed with HIV and had nowhere else to go, Jiang Tong took him in. Gao Kun shuttled daily between the CDC and the rental, filling his spare time with odd jobs. On rare days off, he studied sign language.
While waiting for touch-ups, Zhou Ziheng and Xia Xiqing rehearsed their lines as the director guided their movements. By afternoon, they had filmed several everyday scenes in this rental apartment.
“These are the more positive, sunny moments in the film,” Kuncheng instructed the lighting technician. “The light needs to be strong, but soft.”
As night fell, they transitioned to the night scenes.
This particular night scene troubled Zhou Ziheng deeply. In his dream, Jiang Tong saw his mother return home, packing her bags. At first, she claimed she would take Jiang Tong with her, but in the end, she left alone. Jiang Tong awoke from the nightmare in terror.
Just reading the script had sent chills down Zhou Ziheng’s spine.
“Director Kun,” Zhou Ziheng sat beside Kun Cheng while Xia Xiqing was getting makeup done, “Is this scene crucial?”
“Absolutely. It’s the catalyst that reveals Jiang Tong’s past.” Kun Cheng proceeded to discuss the script at length with Zhou Ziheng, but Zhou couldn’t absorb a single word. He’d originally thought that if it wasn’t important, it might be better to cut it altogether—to spare Xia Xiqing from pouring his heart into a performance that would likely end up on the cutting room floor.
But seeing how seriously the director took it, Zhou could only nod repeatedly, his heart filled with unease.
Occasionally, he glanced over at Xia Xiqing, only to see him intently memorizing lines, eyes lowered as he studied the script in his hands. After touch-ups, filming was about to begin. While waiting for Kun Cheng to arrange the blocking, Xia Xiqing spoke up, “Director Kun, this part with Jiang Tong is a dream. To distinguish it from reality, I think Jiang Tong should speak normally within the dream.”
He elaborated, “His dreams reflect his deepest desires. He misses his mother so much that he dreams of her returning to take him away. Similarly, I believe he longs to be a normal child, free from the ridicule of being unable to speak.”
Kun Cheng considered this and decided to adopt his suggestion, giving it a try.
“Scene 45, Take 1, Camera A. Action!”
Jiang Tong sat alone on an old sofa, quietly fiddling with the blades of a vintage fan.
A knock suddenly sounded. The moment he stood up, the sound vanished. Just as he was about to sit back down, the knocking resumed.
Jiang Tong took two slow steps forward, then inexplicably quickened his pace, opening the door anxiously.
Outside stood a woman covered in wounds. She reeked of cheap perfume mixed with the scent of blood, her hair a dull yellow and curled, fishnet stockings torn in several places, her makeup long since smudged and faded.
“Tongtong?” She smiled, bright red lipstick smudged at the corners of her mouth. “Tongtong.”
Jiang Tong froze in place, unable to utter a word.
“Tongtong, it’s Mom.” The woman who had been gone for so many years embraced him tenderly, patting his back. “Mom is here.”
Jiang Tong stood frozen, letting her hold him tightly.
“Yes, Mom’s back.” The woman loosened her arms, gently pushing him away by his shoulders. “You’ve grown so big…”
Her tone faltered slightly.
Because the director hadn’t anticipated that Xia Xiqing, playing Jiang Tong, had already begun to cry.
A large tear fell from his eye in that very moment of embrace.
Even Kuncheng behind the monitor was startled. He’d seen many actors whose emotions surfaced quickly, but this was a first. He hadn’t even required Xia Xiqing to cry here. Only Zhou Ziheng stood silently in the corner, more worried than anyone.
But the actress was also professional. Without the director calling cut, she quickly carried on with the scene. She brought in her worn suitcase, smiling as she stroked Jiang Tong’s cheek. “Mommy’s back this time to take you away.” With that, she pulled Jiang Tong toward the small bedroom, yanked open the wardrobe, and scooped out a pile of clothes and dresses, stuffing them all into the suitcase.
“Mom,” Jiang Tong stood dumbstruck beside the wardrobe, his fingers searching inside his ear but finding no hearing aid. His eyes were filled with confusion. “Did you really come back?”
“Yes, silly boy.” His mother rose from beside the wardrobe and stroked his face once more. “This time, I’m taking you away. We’re never coming back.” She glanced around the room. “We’re never staying in this place again.”
Jiang Tong suddenly smiled, joyful like a child. He joined his mother, rummaging through the wardrobe for his own clothes, stuffing them one by one into the small, battered suitcase.
The camera captured their hands intertwined inside the suitcase.
But the next second, as he stuffed his yellowed white shirt inside, several drops of blood suddenly splattered onto it.
One drop, then another, merging into a pool.
He looked up and saw blood streaming down his mother’s face, from her forehead to her chin. Her body was covered in wounds, even bearing large and small scars from cigarette burns.
Jiang Tong suddenly panicked.
“Mom, I’ll go… I’ll go get gauze, medicine…” He scrambled to his feet, rushed to the bathroom, pulled open the cabinet behind the mirror, and retrieved a small first-aid kit. When he closed the mirror again, he saw clearly in the reflection that he, too, was covered in wounds.
Mom.
I need to bandage Mom.
When he returned to the bedroom, it was empty. No trace of Mom, no suitcase. He rushed out clutching the suitcase like a madman, only to see a figure opening the front door and leaving this dilapidated rental apartment.
Mom!
Jiang Tong cried out, but found no sound could escape his throat. He flung open the door and raced barefoot down the stairs.
Nothing. She was gone.
Jiang Tong clutched his small medical kit alone, clenching his teeth so tightly his jaw muscles trembled.
His eyes were dark and swollen, brimming with tears that refused to fall.
“Cut.” Director Kun stood up. “That take was great. Really good.” He felt a stir of emotion. He’d assumed it would take at least three or four takes to achieve the effect he wanted. Xia Xiqing’s performance was spot on—even better than he’d imagined. Kun Cheng couldn’t help but wonder if Editor Xu had written this script specifically for him.
After shooting several additional takes, they finally wrapped up the dream sequence. Xia Xiqing sat in the break room, waiting for the props team to reset the scene. He dared not think about whether he could have kept his composure if this scene had been filmed before he brought Zhou Ziheng home.
But now, he seemed to have let go of much of his anxiety.
It had been a while since filming wrapped when Xia Xiqing noticed a sharp sting at his feet. Looking down, he saw a shallow cut near his toes, likely caused by something on the floor.
He’d been so distracted he hadn’t even noticed the injury.
Just as he was about to call Xiao Xiao, Zhou Ziheng approached carrying a basin of hot water.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I had Xiaoxiao heat water while you were filming.” Zhou Ziheng knelt halfway on the floor, dipped his hand in to test the temperature, then grabbed Xia Xiqing’s foot to dip it in—only to be dodged.
“I’ll do it myself.” He glanced at the door to the break room. “Don’t do that. It wouldn’t look good if someone saw.”
“What are you afraid of?” Zhou Ziheng stubbornly grabbed his ankle again, only to notice a faint trace of blood on the sole of his foot. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“You call this an injury? You’ve broken arms and lost legs on set before. This is just a scratch.” Xia Xiqing, afraid he’d say something, proactively placed his foot in the basin and reached to wash it himself. But Zhou Ziheng was stubborn, insisting on helping him. The two awkwardly wrestled for a while. Xia Xiqing, fearing someone might walk in at any moment and see them acting up, had no choice but to play dead and let him wash it.
“Then hurry up. Don’t waste time.”
Zhou Ziheng chuckled with his head bowed. “It won’t take long.” His movements were incredibly gentle. He stood up, fetched a soft towel and their small first-aid kit, then crouched down again to carefully dry his feet. He placed them on his own knees, disinfected the tiny wound, and finally applied a Band-Aid.
“All done.” Finishing the task, Zhou Ziheng leaned down to kiss the pale skin of his instep before looking up and smiling at him.
Xia Xiqing gazed down at him. “Silly.”
Zhou Ziheng pinched his ankle. “You acted so convincingly just now. I was genuinely worried about you. Afraid you might lose control.”
“Getting it all out seems to help a lot,” Xia Xiqing said, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Keeping it bottled up just makes it easier to explode.”
“You’ll definitely get better and better.” Zhou Ziheng tilted his face up to smile at him.
This man was peculiar. When unsmiling, his overly sharp features carried an intense, innate pressure. Yet when he smiled, his deep eyes would curve unrestrainedly like crescent moons, and the corners of his mouth would lift, radiating a childlike tenderness within his gentleness.
Getting better and better…
Where did he find the confidence to keep pushing him to believe in those happy endings?
Seeing Zhou Ziheng nod, he continued, “I recall a line in it: An immature idealist dies tragically for his ideals, while a mature idealist lives on, compromising for them.” His eyes met Zhou Ziheng’s. “You resemble that immature former type.”
Too passionate, too all-in.
Zhou Ziheng stood up, then bent over again, his hands braced on his straight knees as he leaned close to Xia Xingqing sitting in the chair.
He’d expected Zhou to argue back—after all, he always had his own logic.
But Zhou Ziheng affirmed Xia Xiqing’s assessment.
“You’re right.”
Zhou Ziheng leaned in and kissed him, his gaze both resolute and tender.
“My ideal is you. If it comes down to an equivalent exchange, I truly would be willing to die tragically for you.”
In that moment, Xia Xiqing knew this man was born a positive particle, eager to embrace his negative counterpart and vanish in the heat.
“For a performing artist, this is a conclusion brimming with dramatic beauty and impact.”
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