The “cat” across from him didn’t respond, prompting Milk to let out a confused meow and twitch her pointed ears. She even seemed about to lick the “cat’s” fur.
“No licking,” Qi Song scooped up her tiny paw. “That’s not yours.”
“?”
Milk looked at the “cat,” then looked at Qi Song, wide-eyed and filled with confusion.
“He doesn’t want to admit it,” Qi Song murmured. “So what should I do now…”
Milk curled up in Qi Song’s arms, lazily flicked her tail, and yawned.
Her human was troubled—what did that have to do with a little cat like her?
Qi Song stared at Milk, deep in thought. After a moment, he lowered his gaze and sent a message.
Seven: Someone as boring as me being rejected… it’s not that surprising.
CHI: No way! You’re honestly such a great person. Everyone really likes you.
Qi Song’s fingers tensed as he read Chi Zhan’s reply. He typed something out—but didn’t send it.
He had only written three words—
“What about you”
He wanted to ask, Do you like me too?
But in the end, he deleted the message.
Even though he had made it this clear—practically telling Chi Zhan outright that he was Song Guang—Chi Zhan still insisted on separating Seven and Song Guang as if they were two different people.
Chi Zhan noticed that Seven was “typing” but no message ever came through. A twinge of regret flickered in his chest.
If he had realized earlier that Song Guang and Seven were the same person, he never would’ve brought up the breakup before that match. And then there’d been a major competition after. He could tell Seven had been distracted because of it.
But once the bowstring’s been drawn, there’s no turning back. He’d already brought it up—he couldn’t just turn around and say, “Let’s get back together.”
That would’ve been nothing short of toying with the other person’s feelings.
Chi Zhan slumped on the sofa. If someone had told him a few days ago that he’d not only get together with Seven but also be the one to propose breaking up, he would’ve said they were crazy.
Yet here they were.
He mulled it over for a long time before finally turning to Baidu, that all-knowing oracle, and searched: “How to comfort your ex-boyfriend after a breakup.” The only result?
“You’ve already broken up, what’s there to comfort?”
“……”
But his situation with Seven wasn’t your typical breakup—he couldn’t just apply generic advice. And he definitely couldn’t talk to anyone else about it. Tao Ran would absolutely be curious who he’d been dating and might accidentally blurt something out during Seven’s next match. As for everyone else… not an option either.
Chi Zhan tried again, this time searching: “How to comfort a friend after a breakup.” The results were way more diverse—and a bit more reasonable. Stuff like karaoke therapy, drowning sorrows in alcohol for three days straight, setting them up with someone new…
None of it felt quite right either.
He couldn’t even picture Seven drinking.
But… Seven probably loved animals, right?
Chi Zhan recalled him once saying he had a two-digit number of pets at home, and that instantly killed the idea of gifting him a cat.
Seven: I’m feeling much better now. Don’t worry.
Seven: It’s getting late. Go get some sleep.
Seven: cat-head goodnight.jpg
After exchanging goodnights, Chi Zhan still didn’t feel at ease. He privately messaged Chen Che on WeChat to ask how Seven was doing.
“Secretary Chi just asked me how Captain Qi’s doing?” Chen Che jumped from his chair, almost spilling his cola. He turned to Wen An for help. “What should I say?! Is this like… ex-boyfriend concern??”
Wen An calmly analyzed the situation.
“Seems like Secretary Chi still has feelings for Captain Qi. But I have no idea why they broke up.”
“Maybe it was something super tragic…” Chen Che’s eyes lit up with wild inspiration. “What if they’re actually long-lost brothers who were forced to break up after discovering the truth?!”
“……”
“But they don’t even look alike,” Chen Che added. “Still, maybe Secretary Chi got tired of the long-distance thing. Or maybe he couldn’t take how cold and distant Captain Qi is. Let’s be real—dude’s got ice in his veins. Only things he seems to care about are games and cats.”
Then Chen Che started madly typing back to Chi Zhan. Wen An leaned over for a peek—and immediately did a mental facepalm.
Wen An, channeling the energy of a subway grandpa reading over someone’s shoulder: “He’s lost his appetite… can’t sleep or eat… cries himself to sleep every night… and he’s lost ten pounds? Are you kidding me?”
“I added a little artistic flair. It’s to make Secretary Chi feel bad for him!”
Wen An was speechless.Â
“You’re making it sound like Captain Qi’s terminally ill. Just tell him the truth.”
A few moments later, Chi Zhan received Chen Che’s reply: “Captain Qi’s totally fine, don’t worry. Nothing to be concerned about. He’s great at managing himself. Worst-case scenario, he might secretly cry under the covers in the dead of night.”
“……”
His life felt like a tangled mess—snarled beyond repair. He was supposed to be a simple NPC, yet now he was drowning in emotional drama.
If he didn’t handle this properly, he’d end up full of guilt. But he didn’t know what the right move even was.
Chi Zhan put down his phone and went to shower. Night had already fallen. After the bath, he turned off the lights and crawled into bed, but even lying in the dark, his mind remained restless.
After ten minutes of lying awake with his eyes closed, he turned on the bedside lamp, planning to read until sleep came. He reached for the unfinished sci-fi novel by his bed—but then his eyes caught sight of A Brief History of Time nearby.
X used to read that to him before bed.
Chi Zhan never lasted more than two minutes before dozing off.
How did Chu Xingxiao even manage to finish this thing?
Refusing to admit defeat, Chi Zhan picked up the book, vowing to finish at least Chapter One tonight and become a cultured intellectual.
He opened to page one… and promptly fell asleep.
His phone lit up silently on the desk beside him, then dimmed again when no one unlocked it.
When the alarm woke Chi Zhan, he felt something hard underneath him. Blinking groggily, he looked down and saw that massive book—the one he’d sworn he’d read ten pages of and only made it through one. He let out a helpless laugh.
A damn sleep-inducing masterpiece.
