Chi Zhan: Maybe… we saw the same fireworks.
He chatted idly with Song Guang for a while. Typing one-handed was tricky, and he accidentally tapped open Song Guang’s match history.
Every record listed was with him—team battles, couple events, mini-games.
In other words, aside from Chi Zhan, Song Guang hadn’t played with anyone else.
Chi Zhan fell silent.
In truth, from the very beginning, he’d sensed that Song Guang liked him. But since Song Guang never said anything, he’d pretended not to notice.
Yet the more time passed, the more guilty he felt letting it drag on.
Having Song Guang pretend to be his boyfriend was already exploiting his feelings. And now, there wasn’t even a need to keep up appearances anymore.
Song Guang asked if he wanted to enter the couple tournament together.
Chi Zhan slowly typed: Song Guang, we…
For some reason, his fingers kept fumbling.
The unsent message hovered in the chat as “Typing…” for over a minute. Chi Zhan still hadn’t hit send when Song Guang messaged: What’s wrong?
Staring at the blinking cursor, Chi Zhan hesitated—then finally tapped send.
Chi Zhan: Let’s break up.
***
Realistically, “break up” wasn’t quite accurate. A better way to put it would’ve been to “end the fake relationship.” But saying that out loud felt like rubbing salt in the wound.
Song Guang didn’t reply. Not even a “typing…” bubble. The silence only made Chi Zhan more anxious.
Truth be told, Song Guang would’ve made an ideal boyfriend. He was patient, gentle, and being with him always felt easy and fun.
What confused Chi Zhan was that their entire relationship had existed online. They’d only ever exchanged one photo. The whole thing felt like an illusion, like moonlight reflected in water. And now that Chi Zhan’s real-life problems were piling up, he couldn’t help but neglect Song Guang.
But… what was it that Song Guang really wanted from him?
Chi Zhan had always believed relationships should be mutual. Back then, when he’d asked Song Guang to be his fake boyfriend, and Song Guang hadn’t refused, Chi Zhan knew he owed him.
And now… he had no idea how to repay that debt.
The longer it dragged on, the heavier the guilt became.
After who knew how long, Song Guang finally responded.
Song Guang: Were you not happy with me?
Chi Zhan had already braced himself for an emotional outburst, but when he saw that gentle message, he instinctively pressed his lips together.
The guilt was suffocating.
He hesitated, unsure what to say in return.
Was he really going to just tell Song Guang, “I don’t want to use your feelings anymore”?
Chi Zhan: I wasn’t unhappy, but…
Song Guang: But you don’t need me anymore.
Song Guang: Even as in-game lovers, you don’t want to continue. Right?
Song Guang rarely sent such long messages, and he hadn’t even added a sticker this time. Chi Zhan felt like he’d really upset him.
And this time, he didn’t know how to make it right.
Chi Zhan: We can still be friends. If you fall for someone, don’t feel like you owe me anything…
Before he could finish typing, Song Guang’s avatar grayed out. The message remained unread.
Chi Zhan stared, then let out a quiet sigh, laughing at himself bitterly:
What a talent. I’d actually managed to upset someone as even-tempered as Song Guang enough to make him log off.
The car slowly fell into silence. Everyone had been hyped up all day yesterday and now seemed to be winding down. Someone yawned, and sleepiness drifted through the cabin. Chi Zhan set his phone aside and looked out the window.
Snow was falling again, soft and heavy. Even through the glass, the howling wind was audible. A layer of fog had gathered on the window, and when Chi Zhan wiped a corner clear, he saw rolling, snow-covered mountains beneath a gray-blue sky—everything cloaked in cold, shadowed light.
The gloom outside weighed down the mood inside too.
“It’s so damn gloomy out.” Chen Che wiped the window with his sleeve, his enthusiasm drained. “Ugh, I hate these overcast days. Not a single beam of sunlight. I’m practically sprouting mushrooms over here!”
“If you’re growing mushrooms, then the whole world’s a fungal forest,” Wen An replied. Someone like Chen Che, who lit up at the slightest attention, was basically a walking sunbeam.
Chen Che sighed dramatically.
“Only thing that stays the same in this kind of weather is Captain Qi. He was still all lovey-dovey with his boyfriend last night…”
Wen An nudged him hard, signaling him to look to the side.
Chen Che turned his head—and found himself face-to-face with Qi Song’s ice-cold aura. It was like a thunderstorm had settled around him, his mood so heavy it eclipsed even the weather. If emotion had substance, Qi Song was probably a walking monsoon—thunder, lightning, torrential downpour and all.
“…???”
He immediately swallowed the rest of his words and tried to play it cool.
“Ahaha, so what I meant to say is, the whole world’s turning into a mushroom field! Mushrooms are the real essence of life!”
While babbling, he quickly pulled out his phone and privately messaged Wen An: What’s wrong with Captain Qi?? Did his house catch fire? Go bankrupt? Someone die??
Wen An: Can you not be so dramatic for once?
Chen Che: This is serious! That man is unshakable—even if the world ended, he’d just keep petting his cat and napping. Something’s definitely up!
Wen An: Don’t ask me. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably a relationship issue.
Chen Che: No way! Weren’t things perfectly fine last night? I even heard him humming! Scared the shit out of me!
Wen An: Then ask him?
Chen Che snapped his phone shut and dramatically exclaimed, “Ah, what a beautiful day we’re having, Captain Qi! Don’t you think?”
Qi Song glanced over at him, expression glacial—like he’d been frozen under centuries of ice. Chen Che’s heart clenched.
He’s mad. He’s really mad! What the hell happened to piss off someone like him that badly?!
He was dying of curiosity.
