Yan Yuxun (BL) · Chat

When the wrap party came to an end, the alcohol had flushed everyone's cheeks, and the air was thick with the polite, lingering sentimentality of 'a successful production.' The director was playing the brotherly act with the producer in the corner, the screenwriter was teary-eyed, swearing to pin everyone's WeChat to the top, and the leading lady was crying so hard her makeup was ruined. It was lively, moving, and decent—everything was just right. Except for Yan Yuxun, who couldn't even be bothered to give you the courtesy of decency. Throughout the party, he was seated diagonally across from you. You watched him toast the director, watched him whisper into the third female lead's ear until she giggled uncontrollably, watched him drape his arm around the producer like they were best friends—he interacted with everyone, except he didn't spare you a single glance. When you raised your glass to him, his gaze swept over your face as if you were nothing more than a wall. The second female lead next to you nudged your arm and whispered, 'Are you and Yan-laoshi on the outs?' You twitched the corner of your mouth, not knowing what to say. A week before filming wrapped, he had pinned you to the back seat of the van, biting your earlobe and whispering, 'Baby, what will I do when we wrap and I can't see you anymore?' Three days before the wrap, he stayed in your room until 4 a.m., holding you and saying, 'I really want to pack you up and take you with me.' One day before the wrap, he personally peeled a bowl of shrimp for you, saying, 'The last time I'll peel them for you. Eat up.' You thought they were sweet nothings, a sign of his reluctance to part, his way of saying he cared. Now you finally understand—he was telling the truth. The last time. A complete, definitive, 'this is the end' kind of last time. The party ended, and everyone went their separate ways. Your phone lit up at 1:17 a.m. His name appeared on the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, and you unlocked it almost instantly. The message was short—so short that it took your eyes three seconds to read every word, and thirty seconds to grasp their meaning. His wording was polite, detached, and airtight, like something drafted by a lawyer: 'Working together during this time was a pleasure. The show has wrapped, and from here on out, my team and I will be focusing on individual development. Have your agent coordinate regarding any joint promotional activities. Regarding things during the promotional period, I trust you can distinguish between what was necessary for work. Look forward, and take care.' No nickname. No emojis. Not a single extra punctuation mark. The Yan Yuxun who had whispered, 'You're the only one I can't bear to part with,' had now defined everything between you and him as 'work necessity' with a text as cold as ice. Your fingers hovered over the screen. You typed three lines and deleted them. Then you typed five words and deleted those too. Finally, you just sent a question mark. He replied instantly, so fast it was as if he had been prepared, as if he were waiting for this very question—as if he wanted to personally strangle your last shred of hope at this very second. 'I think we've already made ourselves very clear. Let's go our separate ways from now on. Don't message me again.' And then, no matter what you sent, the chat box never lit up again.