The world smelled like rain and promise.
Morning sunlight streamed through Li Wei's thin curtains, catching on the silver edges of the concert ticket lying on his desk.
> "Yuhan: The Moonlight Tour — Beijing. VIP Pass."
He'd read the words so many times, they'd started to blur.
Every time his eyes landed on the handwritten note at the bottom — Thank you for seeing me — his heart gave a small, unsteady jump.
It had to be a dream.
A strange, fragile dream stitched from caffeine, rain, and longing.
He pressed his fingers lightly against the ticket, half afraid it might dissolve into mist.
But it didn't. It was real — paper, ink, weight.
Proof that last night actually happened.
The café was closed today. Zhao Ming had given him the morning off, muttering something about "once in a lifetime chances" and "don't embarrass me if you faint."
So Li Wei spent the day pacing.
He cleaned, drew, made noodles, then forgot to eat them. Every sound — the hum of the fridge, the whistle of the kettle — sounded too loud.
He kept glancing at the clock. Each hour felt like another heartbeat closer to something he couldn't name.
By evening, the city came alive.
Neon signs blinked through the mist, and the streets filled with people holding glowing banners and lightsticks.
Yuhan's name shimmered on posters across the venue walls — golden letters against deep blue.
Li Wei stood among the crowd, holding his small umbrella, his heart a quiet storm.
He'd never been here before — not as a fan in a crowd, not this close.
He used to watch from afar: livestreams, interviews, fan edits at 2 a.m.
Now he was here because Yuhan himself had asked him to be.
The guards scanned his ticket.
"VIP pass? This way, please."
He followed the hallway — long, quiet, lined with posters of Yuhan's past tours.
Each one showed a different version of him: smiling, fierce, shining.
But Li Wei remembered the one from last night — tired, soft, human.
A staff member led him backstage. "Please wait here until the show starts. You'll be able to meet Mr. Chen after."
Li Wei nodded, sitting on a small bench near the stage curtains.
From there, he could see the faint shimmer of the lights beyond, the echo of the crowd's laughter.
The air smelled like smoke machines and cologne.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the sound of thousands calling Yuhan's name.
> "Yuhan! Yuhan!"
It was like thunder — yet beautiful.
So much love, so much noise — for someone who once sat alone in his café, tracing raindrops on glass.
And then, music.
The lights dimmed. The stage glowed.
Yuhan stepped out — not the man in a hoodie from yesterday, but the star: dressed in silver and black, his voice rising clear through the hall like something celestial.
Li Wei forgot to breathe.
He sang like he was pouring himself into every note.
Even from backstage, Li Wei could feel it — that ache, that longing woven through melody.
Every lyric sounded like rain turned into song.
And when Yuhan looked toward the wings — just for a heartbeat — Li Wei swore their eyes met.
The crowd roared.
But Li Wei just sat there, his chest tight, his hands trembling in his lap.
He realized then — he didn't love the idol on the posters.
He loved the man who looked lonely under the rain.
---
The show ended hours later, though it felt like minutes.
The staff guided him quietly toward Yuhan's dressing room.
His heart raced so fast he thought it might give him away.
He knocked once.
A soft voice answered, "Come in."
Yuhan sat on a couch, hair damp with sweat, still in partial costume.
The silver eyeliner had smudged slightly beneath his eyes — and somehow, that made him even more beautiful.
He looked up and smiled faintly. "You came."
Li Wei hesitated by the door. "You… really meant it?"
"I don't joke with thank-yous."
Yuhan gestured for him to sit. "You work at that café every day, don't you?"
Li Wei blinked. "You remember?"
"Of course." Yuhan leaned back, exhaling softly. "It was quiet there. Peaceful. I haven't felt that in a long time."
Silence settled between them — not heavy, just gentle.
Li Wei's fingers tightened around his jacket. "You looked… sad yesterday."
Yuhan gave a soft laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You saw that too?"
"I didn't mean to."
"I'm glad you did." He turned slightly, meeting Li Wei's gaze. "Most people only see what they want from me. You saw what I was hiding."
Li Wei swallowed. "I wasn't trying to."
"That's why it mattered."
For a moment, Li Wei couldn't speak.
The idol he'd admired for years was sitting across from him, his voice low, his eyes warm — and he was thanking him.
Yuhan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you draw often?"
"Every day," Li Wei said quietly. "It helps me breathe."
"Then keep drawing," Yuhan said. "Even when you think no one sees it."
Li Wei nodded, his throat tight. "Do you… ever get tired of being seen all the time?"
Yuhan's smile faltered. "Every day."
He glanced toward the mirror — lights still shining around it, like a frame around a cage.
"Sometimes," he continued softly, "I wonder if anyone remembers I'm human too."
Li Wei's voice came out barely above a whisper. "I do."
That made Yuhan pause. His eyes softened, just a little.
He reached out — hesitantly — and brushed his fingers against Li Wei's sleeve. The touch was light, almost uncertain.
"Thank you," he murmured again.
The air between them felt charged — not with fame or admiration, but with something fragile, like the space between raindrops before they fall.
Yuhan pulled back first, glancing toward the window where the city lights blinked faintly through the glass.
"I'll be leaving for Shanghai tomorrow," he said after a while. "Another show."
Li Wei's chest tightened. "Oh."
"But…" Yuhan turned back, eyes catching Li Wei's. "If you ever come by the café again around closing time, maybe I'll find an excuse to stop by too."
Li Wei smiled — shy, soft, glowing. "I'll keep the coffee warm."
For the first time that night, Yuhan laughed. A real laugh.
Light, free, the kind that made Li Wei's heart ache with warmth.
He stood, handing Li Wei a folded paper. "Here. Don't open it until you get home."
Li Wei took it carefully. "Okay."
As he turned to leave, Yuhan said quietly, "Li Wei."
He looked back.
Yuhan's expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between gratitude and something deeper.
"Thank you," he said again. "For seeing me — when no one else did."
Li Wei nodded. "Always."
Then he stepped out into the night.
---
The city had stopped raining. The air smelled clean, new.
Li Wei walked home slowly, the folded paper safe in his pocket.
When he finally sat by his window, he opened it.
Inside was a small, hand-drawn sketch — Yuhan's signature at the bottom.
It showed a boy behind a café counter, looking up through the window as rain fell outside.
And next to it, a few words written in delicate handwriting:
> "Let's meet again — somewhere the rain begins."
— Yuhan
Li Wei smiled through the tears he didn't realize were falling.
Outside, the first drops of new rain began to fall — soft, steady, quiet.
Like a promise.
End of Chapter 2