I write angsty novels, and I wrote the male supporting character, Mo Jin, to die on the torture platform.
I woke up one morning to find myself at the execution ground. He was covered in blood, and when he looked up, he called me by my real name:
“Lin Zhixia, you’ve finally come to pay for what you did.”
He was reborn with memories of his death, and knew I was the one holding the pen.
I could change the plot by adding words, but the moment I did, I was erased.
Our fates were bound together. We would live or die as one: when he hurt, I hurt; if he died, I died.
I defied fate to change his destiny, forgetting my friends, my address, and even what my parents looked like.
He bore the backlash for me, faced deadly traps, and guarded me for a lifetime, too possessive to ever let go.
The plot wanted him dead, the Imperial Preceptor wanted me gone, and the whole world was driving us toward our deaths.
I rewrote the ending with my pen, and he protected me with his life.
In the end, I became a breeze he could neither see nor touch.
He became emperor and spent his life alone, writing with his brush every day, writing only my name.
Together year after year, yet never meeting again: a heartache carved down to the bone.
Come on, come on, come on