Lu Huai, who logged off before social death could claim him, really had no choice but to dive into writing.

For him, "social death" carried weight others wouldn’t grasp. What many dismissed as trivial hurdles were uncrossable chasms for Lu Huai.

Writing flowed smoothly. In the world of words, he needed no one—only himself.

His success was modest. On this otaku-fantasy site, his work sat squarely mid-tier. Earning ten grand a month? A dream. But three to four thousand in royalties came easily.

Not bad at all.

Yet money wasn’t why he wrote—not to avoid asking parents for cash to splurge on gear or treats. It was… that online, only his pen name existed.

Most readers here were like him: guys trapped in a monotonous loop of classes, screens, and sleep, zero social life. Maybe they’d grin that same silly, goofy smile while reading his fantasies—

then snap back: *Just idle daydreams. Not real.*

Then another bruising night. Another silent night. No cute girl met. No heart-fluttering chat. Just repetition.

He’d reopen his novel. Sink deep into the fantasy.

Again and again, he’d whisper: *All I need is tonight’s joy. Tonight’s peace. Tomorrow? Life goes on. Time flows gently.*

The lonely stay lonely.

So why not use words to gift readers a flicker of joy—or at least… shared warmth, a quiet "I see you"?

Lu Huai craved validation deeply. Yet he could never ask for it.

When others said, "You’re doing great," he’d flinch inwardly: *Just pity.*

Online, no one knew his face. Only his words mattered. Souls could resonate. Looks? Irrelevant.

His story was simple: two lonely souls, nearly abandoned by the world, finding each other. Not to rebel.

But to hold tight. To build a tiny world just for them.

After finishing the 3,000-word chapter, the boy—lost in his creation—smiled. A real one.

Joy from creating. From genuine praise. From heartfelt comments. From sincere recommendation votes.

And then…

*"Ugh, so pretentious! Too much inner monologue! I came for plot, not your poetry! Had a long day—just wanted to unwind. Idiot author!"*

He clicked reply. Typed a fiery rebuttal.

Then deleted it.

*So angry!* But arguing online? What if they had a point? What if others piled on?

Would he get cyberbullied?

Better delete…

The insecure boy erased the words.

Then—an editor message popped up.

*"Avg subs are rising steadily. Push harder. Rec votes are low, but if subs hold, you might hit mid-tier. A buyout deal? Solid for a debut."*

*Rising?*

Lu Huai—the textbook ostrich—clicked the stats. *Huh… not bad.* Even at summer’s 6k-word pace, earnings would climb… So why more hate?

He wanted to ask. But editors are busy. Sounding needy? Weak. Troublesome. He typed:

*"Okay. Got it. Thanks."*

Online Lu Huai: cool, polite. A mask he didn’t even notice wearing—just not *that* guy.

*"Do you *really* get it? You updated once yesterday and deleted the hate comment… Not a fix."*

*"Busy lately. Don’t see the point in arguing."*

*"Ooh, personality! Hey, seventeen-year-old kid—got a photo?"*

???

*What?*

He checked the profile: cute anime girl avatar. Editor name: Xue Yan.

*"No photo. Sorry."*

*"So aloof~ Fine. Keep subs stable. Hit Tier A next month? You can apply for illustrations. Keep going!"*

*"Okay. Thanks."*

Like ending a press conference.

Silence. Lu Huai exhaled.

Nearly 7 p.m.

Stomach growled. He remembered Yan Ningning saying she’d come for dinner…

But no knock.

*Forgot. Or busy.* Of course—his life wasn’t worth her memory. Countless guys: smoother, richer, funnier, flashier.

What did he have? Couldn’t even speak up. Why would she care?

He pulled the curtain. Stars glittered. Neon lights bled softly across the city.

*Good.*

The world kept its noise for others. Left this room’s quiet glow for him.

He shut the curtain. Phone screen: no messages. Only parents’ worried texts.

A pang of sadness. He typed gently: *"Don’t worry. Ate already. All settled. Hope work goes well."*

*When does this lonely night end? Would a shooting star help?*

Sky packed with stars. No meteor. *No luck for me.*

Curled on the sofa, scrolling food apps—not cold, but craving warmth.

Then—

*Ding-dong~~~~*

The doorbell chimed.

Like a lighthouse flashing to a drifting sailor: *"Come home."*

*"Sorry I’m late! Fell asleep checking my phone after getting home… then showered."*

Yan Ningning.

His heart swelled—though he’d never admit it.

She glowed, fresh from the shower, vibrant and warm.

Maybe his emptiness magnified it. Or maybe beautiful girls *were* fantasy to him.

But in his eyes? Stunning.

Summer dress. Bare legs—long, toned, smooth. One glance sent his pulse racing.

Even her bare toes in slippers looked playfully cute.

Flawless. Absolutely flawless. She stepped inside.

*"Didn’t sneak dinner, right?"*

Lu Huai steadied his voice. Nodded.

*"Nah… gaming. Forgot."*

*Not waiting for you. Just… forgot.*

She tilted her head. Ballet-trained posture accentuated her silhouette. The spaghetti-strap dress—innocent yet tempting. Lu Huai looked away.

*"Games over food? Tsk."*

She didn’t notice his panic. He felt guilty for overthinking. *Why can’t I just relax?*

*"Happens sometimes."*

She ignored the excuse, peeked into the kitchen.

*"Let’s eat together? I haven’t either."*

*"I… can’t cook."*

Refusal slipped out. The needier he felt, the more he pushed away.

*"I’ll cook! Your kitchen’s stocked. Mine wasn’t."*

She tied on his mom’s apron—neither man cooked—and breezed into the kitchen.

Lu Huai watched, dazed.

She *could* cook. Chopping, washing, prepping—fluid, practiced.

But she tossed him a task.

*"Grab bowls? And rinse the bok choy—it’s fresh."*

He moved carefully. Didn’t want to seem useless.

Washing greens, gentle motions.

Her ponytail swayed. A tiny mole on her neck—dark against fair skin—held quiet charm.

*She’d make someone a perfect wife. Not me.*

His mind spiraled again.

*"Parents away these days. Come eat at my place? I’m free."*

(Her parents worked nonstop—medical bills from her illness had drained them.)

*"Nah. Takeout’s fine."*

He set the bok choy down. Her hand reached—

fingertips brushed his. Silky smooth. Almost *too* smooth.

A spark. Simultaneous recoil.

Electric.

She pressed her hand to her chest. Cheeks flushed ruby-red, glowing.

He dropped his gaze. Heart hammering.

*If only this moment could last…*

But only the *drip… drip…* of the sink answered. He smothered the flutter.

*Don’t mistake this for hope. Misread it… and even friendship vanishes.*

Again and again, the boy drowned his heartbeat before it could bloom. Reset. Alone.