The sound stops me in my tracks. Not just any sound—the sound of my name, or rather, the nickname only he used to call me.

"Zheng'er."

Seven years. Seven long years I've worked to forget that voice, that name, that man. And now here he is, in the narrow alley behind the TV studio, like a ghost from my past come to haunt me.

The rest of the recording passes in a haze. I go through the motions, smile when I'm supposed to, laugh at the right jokes, but my mind is elsewhere—on that single word, that familiar tone, the memory of what we had and how it ended.

Back in my hotel room, I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone feels heavy in my hand as I open our old chat. The last messages are from months ago: "Happy birthday" followed by my perfunctory "Thanks."

I type and delete, delete and retype, unable to form a coherent thought. Should I ask if it was really him? Should I pretend I didn't hear? Should I demand an explanation for seven years of silence?

Before I can decide, those three little dots appear: "正在输入中"

My heart races as the message finally comes through.

"Which hotel are you staying at?"

I type the name without hesitation, hitting send before I can second-guess myself. What am I doing? This is madness. After all this time...

Hours pass in agonizing anticipation. I shower, change, pace the room until my new shirt is wrinkled. The clock ticks on, and no knock comes.

Just as I'm starting to think it was all another cruel dream, exhaustion finally overtakes me. I fall into a restless sleep, only to be woken by the sound of the door clicking open.

There he stands in the dim light, just as I remembered him yet somehow different—older, more worn around the edges, but with the same eyes that used to make my heart skip a beat.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I got held up at the wrap party."

I'm frozen in place, unable to speak as he approaches the bed. Without thinking, I reach out and touch his arm, half-convinced he's just another dream.

He's real. Warm skin under my fingertips, the faint scent of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke, the rapid pulse beneath his wrist.

"Zhan Zhiwei," I whisper, using his real name for the first time in years. "You混蛋."

Tears I didn't know I was holding back spill over as he sits beside me, and suddenly I'm sixteen again, hurt and angry and so, so glad he's here.

He pulls me into his arms, and just like that, seven years disappear.