At seventeen, Li Yudong wrote in Zhang Yiran's textbook: “One day, I'll build you an observatory.”
At twenty-six, Zhang Yiran repeated those exact words back to him and asked with a smile, “Young Master Li, how many people have you said that to?”
There was an unspoken saying in the capital: the heir to the Li family was a cold moon no one could ever warm. A flower atop a sheer cliff, dangerous to anyone who tried to pluck it.
Only Zhang Yiran knew that, in the summer when they were seventeen, someone had cornered him in an empty classroom. His eyes were so red they looked ready to bleed, but his voice was as light as a thin wonton wrapper. “Could you look at only me?”
“The unattainable flower is an act. The truth is, he lies awake through the long night.”
“I won't try to pluck the cold moon anymore. He only has eyes for one person anyway.”
The author's writing is good, but it's too short