The sound of the front door opening drifted up the stairs just as I smoothed the fabric of my dress. I had no idea why I was nervous.
It was just dinner.
With our parent's friends.And their son.
Zhang Rui.
I made my way down slowly, the soft clack of my heels against the marble echoing like a countdown. By the time I reached the last step, they were already in the foyer—smiling, laughing, warm. A kind of ease that didn't belong in this house anymore.
Zhang Rui stood slightly behind his parents, hands tucked into the pockets of his charcoal coat. Light from the chandelier above reflected in his eyes, softening their sharpness.
And for the first time, I saw him differently.
Not as a rival.
Not as the boy who stole my spotlight.
But as someone impossibly still, in a room full of movement.
When his gaze met mine, he didn't smile, but he didn't look away either.
I didn't either.
And for reasons I couldn't name, my chest tightened just slightly.
There was no smirk this time. No challenge.
Only something Quieter. Warmer.
He nodded once respectfuly, calm, but there was a question behind it. A knowing.
"Li Wei," my mom called, her voice suddenly bright. "Come say hello."
I looked away before it could turn into something more.
I walked over and offered the polite smile I'd perfected for moments like this. Mrs. Zhang immediately reached out and pulled me into a brief hug.
"You've grown so beautifully," she said with a fondness I didn't expect. "I still remember you waddling around in little bunny slippers."
I blinked. "I... didn't know you remembered."
"How could I forget?" she laughed. "You two used to be inseparable. I still have a photo of you holding hands at the park."
I glanced at Zhang Rui. His face gave nothing away, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. As if he did remember.
Dinner passed like a well-rehearsed play. My mother smiled too much, my father nodded too often, and everyone took turns pretending this was a warm reunion instead of a performance layered with quiet comparisons.
"Rui's adjusted so well since moving back," Mrs. Li said to his mom at one point. "He's already made quite the impression on campus."
"Yes," my father added, eyes briefly flicking toward me. "A very composed young man. You've raised him well."
It was said plainly. Casually. But the weight of it landed sharp and cold between my ribs.
And then, just when I thought I'd survived the dinner without incident, it happened.
"Oh—Cai Yun," Zhang Rui's mother said with a nostalgic laugh, "do you remember how we used to joke about them getting married someday?"
The room fell quiet for half a second too long.
My chopsticks froze mid-air.
My mother let out a soft chuckle. "Ah yes. Those silly promises."
"You mean the engagement," Mr. Zhang added, clearly amused. "You tied red thread around their wrists and everything."
I looked at my parents. They smiled—but not in that embarrassed, brush-it-off way. In that warmly reminiscent way.
Like it wasn't a joke.
Zhang Rui shifted slightly in his seat, but his gaze flicked up and met mine again.
Calm. a little curious.
I couldn't read him. I didn't want to.
"Oh, they must've been what—five?" my mom said lightly. "Still, it was such a sweet photo."
I forced a tight smile, focusing on my bowl.
Sweet.
If only they knew how far I'd come from those days. How many walls I'd built since. And how little space there was in my life for sweetness.
Especially when the boy I was apparently once 'engaged' to was now the same one sharing top rank with me—and stealing air from every room he entered.
As dessert arrived—sweet lotus paste buns and warm osmanthus soup—I watched the way my parents kept glancing toward him. They smiled easier. Their tone softened.
My father even laughed at one of his jokes.
It was more affection than I'd seen directed at me in months.
Zhang Rui didn't seem to notice.
But I did.
And that made it worse.
Dinner was over, the dishes cleared, the laughter faded.
They stayed downstairs—my mother pouring more tea, my father still deep in conversation with Mr. Zhang. The adults, as always, talking in circles around things that didn't include me.
I slipped away quietly and climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop, where the Shanghai skyline stretched like a sea of glass and light. The breeze up here was cooler, almost cleansing, brushing through my hair as I leaned against the stone railing.
From up here, everything looked smaller. Manageable.
I used to come here as a child—when I got tired of trying to be seen.
I remembered the competitions. School awards. Debate trophies. Medals that clinked against each other like applause. Every time, I'd rush home, clutching those little victories like treasures.
But my mother would be buried in calls, talking about shipping deadlines or supplier meetings. My father—if he was home—had his ear glued to the phone, discussing numbers in a voice so flat it made everything sound replaceable.
Not once had they looked up.
The medals gathered dust.
Eventually, I stopped showing them.
I drew in a breath and stared out over the city, letting the lights blur.
"You always sneak off after dinner?"
His voice came from behind me—low, casual, but not careless.
I turned slightly.
Zhang Rui stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, the city's glow tracing the lines of his face.
"You followed me," I said simply.
He shrugged. "I've always been good at reading exits."
I looked back out. "Rooftop's not exactly a strategic hideout."
"It is if you're hiding from people who don't usually look up."
That landed harder than it should have.
He walked closer but didn't crowd me. Just stood a few feet away, looking out over the Skyline.
"Nice view," he said.
"I like the silence more."
For a while, neither of us said anything. The only sound was the hum of the city and the faint clatter of plates being washed downstairs.
"You didn't seem surprised," I said finally. "About the whole childhood engagement thing."
He smirked. "I figured if you'd remembered, you would've sued."
"I might still."
His smirk widened, but it faded quickly.
"They talk about it like it was sweet," I murmured, my fingers brushing the cool edge of the railing. "Like some fairytale we grew out of."
"Wasn't it?"
I shook my head. "Fairytales require people to pay attention."
He was quiet at that.
Not out of discomfort.
But understanding.
I glanced at him—his profile lit by the gold from the nearby tower. Still. Present. That same unshakable calm.
"You know," he said, "they like you."
I huffed. "They like what I achieve."
"That's not nothing."
"No," I agreed, my voice quiet. "It's just not the same as being… seen."
For a moment, I thought he'd say something clever or deflective. But he didn't.
Instead, he looked at me.
Not the top-ranker. Not the rival.
Just me.
And it was almost worse.Because he saw too much.
And I didn't know how to unsee him anymore.
His silence wasn't heavy. It was... steady. The kind of silence that doesn't demand anything from you, but also doesn't let you hide.
I didn't realize how rare that was—until now.
I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware of how small I must've looked under this endless sky. "They used to say I was gifted," I muttered, eyes fixed on a billboard flashing red and white across the river. "I won every competition they threw at me. Language, math, mock business negotiations—you name it."
He didn't interrupt.
"But one night," I went on, "I came home holding the national trophy in both hands. I was maybe... ten? Excited. Exhausted. I remember standing at the door for five minutes just trying to figure out who I should show it to first."
The wind tugged gently at my sleeves.
"My mom was on the phone," I said. "Shipping issues in Hangzhou. Dad was halfway through a pitch call. So I just... put it down."
And forgot how it felt to win.
Zhang Rui didn't say "I'm sorry." He didn't try to fix it.
He just looked over at me like he understood something unspoken. Something familiar.
"You never brought it up again?" he asked.
"No point," I said. "If you have to beg someone to notice, it doesn't count."
There was a long pause before he said, "But you still keep winning."
"I guess I do."
"Why?"
I turned to him finally, surprised by the softness in his voice. He wasn't challenging me—not this time. He genuinely wanted to know.
I hesitated. "Because it has become my identity, if I stop, I disappear."
He looked at me then—not the smirk or the cocky rival look from class. Just a quiet steadiness. Like he was putting together a puzzle without rushing.
"You don't disappear," he said. "You just blend into people who never looked properly in the first place."
For some reason, that made something twist in my chest.
We stood like that for a while—pretending we didn't feel too much. The city moved below us, but up here, everything stilled.
And when he finally turned to leave, he didn't say goodbye.
He just looked at me one last time—and nodded.
As if to say:
I saw you.
And I'm not going to forget it.
It brought more comfort than any words like sorry.