She froze in the nest she had built, collapsing uncontrollably and crying silently.

The heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out midday light.

The once-warm room was silent, save for the person curled in bed.

She buried herself in a nest of clothes, clutching a Patch Dog T-shirt, its fabric wrinkled, her hair disheveled, tear streaks at her eyes but not staining the shirt.

She feared “tainting” it, using minimal body wash, wiping clean before slipping into it bare.

Yet it couldn’t preserve the fading scent. She hugged it tighter, burying her face, greedily inhaling the barely perceptible trace.

When the alarm blared, she lifted her head from the pile, bloodshot eyes weary yet sleepless, mingling clarity and haze.

Another night without rest, brief naps broken by nightmares, totaling less than half an hour. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

She reached for the phone on her pillow, her trembling spine and delicate shoulder blades stark under thin skin, her waist’s hollow nearly snapping her fragile, once-elegant frame.

The screen lit up, the annoying alarm—Xu Fengluan’s humming—looping endlessly.

She recalled Xu Fengluan’s embarrassed complaint, red-eared, about setting everything to her songs. It felt odd to her, but if Liu Tingsong loved them, she’d sing live anytime.

The memory softened Liu Tingsong’s gaze.

But when the song stopped, memories receded like a tide, leaving an empty room and her phone wallpaper—Xu Fengluan’s Haicheng sunset, watermark untouched in the corner.

For half a month, or rather five years, her life oscillated between memory and reality, unable to discern truth from illusion.

Her psychiatrist prescribed sleep aids, urging rest to quiet her mind.

But her yearning wove sweet dreams, returning her to Xu Fengluan’s side, only for waking to reveal her solitude. The cycle of gain and loss hurt more than constant absence.

So she barely dared sleep.

The pills went in the trash. Memories sustained her—she feared mistaking dreams for their real moments.

Her thoughts paused as she opened her phone. Followed bloggers had started livestreams, showing a stage empty but for scattered instruments amid a bustling crowd.

Such streams were risky, often cut off.

But Liu Tingsong had no choice.

She couldn’t buy tickets. She’d known the sale date through other channels, waiting on the app.

But Xu Fengluan didn’t want to see her, forbade her approach.

So Liu watched tickets sell out, never clicking “buy.”

Still, she craved a glimpse of Xu Fengluan, even through this shaky stream.

She waited, switching streams when one was cut.

Burning Meteor was no longer the small band from her departure, scrambling for stage time, rushed off mid-song.

Now, they were the headliner, a promotional draw.

Many came for them, waiting through others’ sets.

The stream’s comments buzzed about Burning Meteor.

*[New song this time? For real?]*

*[Heard it from the organizers, but no teaser? Straight to stage?]*

*[Didn’t Xu Fengluan post a video days ago?]*

*[That sweet song? Yeah! My front-row friend saw her rumored girlfriend there!]*

The comment sparked chaos, even silent viewers chiming in.

The streamer fanned the flames, “Yeah, my friend saw her—the one from the trending post.”

True or not, the stream exploded, gifts flooding, questions flying.

The streamer, eyes squinting with glee, waited out the gifts before answering, “Is she prettier in person?”

“My friend said she’s stunning, way better than that blurry photo.”

He read more, “I couldn’t get close; she’s in the front row.”

“I saw her, braving the rain to get back.”

“Yeah, such a romantic, probably rushed to meet friends after a few days.”

“Maybe a fight before? But she brought her band to chase her, they’re good now.”

“No way she’d come if they weren’t.”

The streamer and comments wove a seemingly plausible tale.

Liu Tingsong pursed her lips. Seeing that photo, her foggy mind cleared, recalling Kuang Ye’s ex at the bar.

She knew about the nail salon plan.

But why had Kuang Ye’s ex ended up doing Xu Fengluan’s nails?

As for recognizing her without meeting—she’d heard the woman was at the festival.

Their scheming was to get Kuang Ye and her ex face-to-face, inviting her to the festival. Why involve someone irrelevant?

Though she understood, Liu Tingsong felt stifled.

She hated others tying Xu Fengluan to someone else, spinning love-hate dramas.

Luckily, the streamer didn’t say much more. Burning Meteor took the stage, the crowd erupting, the streamer shouting their name.

Flags waved, phone screens glowed.

Liu Tingsong pushed aside her thoughts, focusing.

Surprisingly, the new song opened the set.

Onstage, Xu Fengluan gripped the mic stand and bass neck. Her re-bleached gray-white hair lacked its usual sharp edge, carrying a beaten-down gloom, yet every move drew screams.

As always, no excess chatter.

“This was written during rehearsal. It’s different from our usual style. Hope you get it,” she said tersely.

Her last line puzzled, but she didn’t explain. Lowering her head, she strummed, and the music began.

Liu Tingsong frowned, understanding her words as the song played.

“I am
The one you’re ashamed of,
The one you can’t show,
The one you can’t see.”

The low voice wasn’t wild, the tune familiar yet different, less rhythmic, barely rock.

Unlike their past songs of cage-breaking and self-longing, this was a sorrowful accusation, questioning, surrendering to despair.

“I am
The one you can coax,
The one you add or subtract.”

Intentionally or not, Xu Fengluan looked her way, her calm green eyes shattered.

Liu Tingsong’s heart trembled. Though Xu couldn’t know she was watching, she panicked, covering the phone, loosening her grip on the T-shirt.

The Patch Dog on the fabric tugged its ears, oblivious to the room’s emotional storm.

Even covered, the song poured from the speakers, filling the empty space.

“How do I shake off your old light?”

Liu Tingsong took a deep breath, unable to ease the flooding ache.

“Why close a door,
Only to open a window,
Am I to steal glances?”

The crowd hushed, pulled into a dark room, a frail child gazing at faint window light.

Giving hope, then crushing it, was cruelest.

“My patience is exhausted,
Why do I endure,
Do I love
The worldview you forged?”

The wind rose, firm accusations turning fleeting, wavering.

Liu Tingsong gathered courage, picking up the phone.

Light hit her teary eyes, mirroring the stage’s desolate sorrow.

Believing, abandoned, over and over.

Like a dog used to being kicked, too pitiful to accuse or curse—this was her boldest outburst.

“Reason is fake,
A dead heart is fake.”

A security guard pushed through, heading for the streamer.

The last stream was spotted.

The streamer bolted, the quiet chat exploding, fans gleefully urging him to run.

Amid the chase, the song neared its end. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

“I love you, that’s real.”

Security shouted, “Don’t run!”

The jostled crowd yelled, cursed, complained.

The streamer’s phone tilted skyward, showing clear blue.

The final hoarse note fell. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

“I’ll never be possible.”

The screen went black, tears pooling at her eyes slid onto the sheets, leaving dark stains.

Her bitten lips moved, trying to respond, but no sound came. Even shouting produced only faint syllables, inaudible to herself, let alone others.

Frozen in her nest, she collapsed, sobbing silently.

The T-shirt was clutched tight, arms wrapping her frail shoulders, nails digging crescent marks.

The clothing pile caved, burying her like crushing guilt.

Breathing grew hard, like a stranded fish gasping, salty tears bitterer than anything on her tongue.