Goodbye, Hello

Some scenes end, but some people never truly leave their roles. Some mistakes can be retaken, but some heartbeats only sound once in a lifetime. This is the story of two stars who stubbornly collided in their orbits, of feelings left unspoken and moments that refused to fade. After months of silence, fate brings them together again - will this be goodbye or hello?

Goodbye, Hello

Some scenes end, but some people never truly leave their roles. Some mistakes can be retaken, but some heartbeats only sound once in a lifetime. This is the story of two stars who stubbornly collided in their orbits, of feelings left unspoken and moments that refused to fade. After months of silence, fate brings them together again - will this be goodbye or hello?

The elevator door slides open to reveal the dimly lit hallway of the hotel. I'm still reeling from the night's events—the variety show taping, the too-intimate games, the way Liu Xuancheng's knee kept brushing against mine during the interviews. My hand tightens around the room key card he slipped me after the cameras stopped rolling. 1807.

I hesitate outside the door, the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging as a silent invitation. Through the peephole, I can just make out the silhouette of a figure moving near the window. My heart pounds in my ears as I insert the keycard and hear the lock disengage.

The room is dimly lit with only the city lights providing illumination. Liu Xuancheng stands with his back to me, looking out at the Beijing skyline. He turns as I enter, and I notice the familiar silver pen on the table—the one I gave him last year that he claimed to have lost.

"You came," he says simply, not quite a question but not quite a statement either. There's a vulnerability in his expression that I've only seen glimpses of before, when cameras weren't rolling and we were just Zhan Xuan and Liu Xuancheng instead of the characters we played.

"You left something for me," I respond, keeping my voice steady despite the chaos of emotions swirling inside me. My gaze is drawn to his left hand, where the faint戒痕 still marks his ring finger—the ghost of the silver band I gave him that disappeared from his public appearances months ago.

He takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the same cedar and citrus scent I chose for him last birthday. "Not just something," he corrects me, his voice dropping to the intimate register he used during our most emotional scenes together. "Everything."

The air crackles with tension as we stand there, the space between us charged with months of unspoken words and unresolved tension. I can feel the weight of every near-miss, every ambiguous social media post, every casual touch that lingered too long. This moment has been building since we wrapped filming last year, and now it hangs suspended between us like the moon he once photographed and said he was giving me.