Jing Mian tried to steady his breathing, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t regain control. From shallow, trembling gasps to uncontrollably ragged breaths, it felt as though an invisible hand had seized his throat, tightening without mercy.
In those suffocating seconds,
he suddenly curled into himself.
Pressing his lips together—now pale from biting—Jing Mian withdrew his hands from the keyboard and let them fall limply at his sides.
He struggled to inhale.
Under the stunned gazes of countless spectators in the venue and the live-stream audience, the gaming chair slid back from the force of his movement.
Sheep vanished from the camera frame, and behind the obscured view of the equipment, the young man crouched on the ground, gasping for air.
Below him, the national tournament buzzed with noise and flashing lights.
…
The venue’s live broadcast silently captured the moment.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
[Huh?]
[WTF… what’s happening?]
[What’s going on?]
[Sheep… what’s wrong?]
[Why are staff rushing over?]
[A player leaving mid-match during Nationals!?]
At the same time, the cameras also caught the reactions from the substitute bench and the audience. Viewers quickly realized that not only were they confused—even the organizers on-site looked completely lost.
[Is he feeling unwell?]
[Unlikely, right? He was playing perfectly fine just now.]
[Yeah, Sheep was in top form this match. How did he suddenly drop his gear and leave with staff in just a few seconds?]
[What the hell happened!? I was so hyped for this match point.]
[… Maybe nature called?]
No one had anticipated this turn of events.
The organizers and assistants were equally baffled. They exchanged glances before quickly dispatching staff to maintain order, signaling the backstage to cut to ads. The ushers tried to calm the restless crowd while other staff hurried after the departing player.
The competition area and substitute bench were restricted from movement. Teammates went from confusion to frantic worry, pacing like ants on a hot pan.
The situation dragged on for over ten minutes.
The barrage of comments gradually turned to frustration:
[This is killing me. Why isn’t there even a single word of explanation? Even if something urgent came up, couldn’t he spare three seconds?]
[Sheep always wears a mask—must be too precious to speak.]
[Let’s be fair—wearing a mask is fine, but as a professional esports player, the least he could do is finish the match.]
[I’ve never seen a player just walk out mid-match in such a major tournament…]
[This is Nationals, for god’s sake.]
[Streamer-turned-pros really think they can do whatever they want.]
[Playing around with hundreds of thousands of viewers and his own teammates like they’re monkeys.]
[To the person who said “nature called”—it’s been ten minutes. Even the most urgent business should be done by now.]
[Keeping tens of thousands of people waiting. How impressive.]
[Is this how you treat a competition?]
[And here I used to like Sheep… thought he loved esports and would give everything for his Team. Guess I was blind.]
[Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ve been a long-time fan—MianMian isn’t the irresponsible type. Could he be sick?]
[Anyway, everyone has their moments. Let’s not be too harsh.]
Occasionally, there would be comments defending Sheep, but they were quickly drowned out by overwhelming rebuttals, almost reaching a state of paralysis:
[“If he was feeling unwell, couldn’t he hold on for the last few minutes?”]
[“How can you even defend this? Did someone hold a knife to his neck forcing him to put down the mouse?”]
[“Speechless +1”]
[“An irresponsible esports player with no sense of teamwork—suggest kicking him out of the Team and disqualifying him from competitions.”]
[“No, just ban him permanently.”]
A cold wind swept through, instantly piercing through his thin shirt, making his hair flutter.
Jing Mian stood rigid.
Unconsciously, he had been led to the spacious arena of the esports venue.
Prepared emergency personnel came running over. Jing Mian squinted slightly—everything around him was dark, the only light source being the window at the far end of the corridor.
The window was wide open, revealing the bustling, glittering streets below, a chaotic flood of traffic jammed and honking, neon lights flashing brightly.
The streetlamp at the corner was dappled by the dense tree shadows, casting dark, damp brick paths where occasional night-time pedestrians strolled to enjoy the cool air.
His vision was hazy and strained.
The mask had long been removed by the emergency personnel.
Yet his labored, heavy breathing showed no signs of easing.
Jing Mian lifted his head, gazing blankly at everything in his field of vision, his eyes gradually illuminated by the lights.
Even as he looked, tears continuously spilled from his eyes.
Images buried deep in his mind flashed back like fragments, appearing repeatedly in his blurred vision, accompanied by sounds that pierced his eardrums.
…
…
“Jing Mian doesn’t interact much with the other children.”
The homeroom teacher, a slender woman with gold-rimmed glasses, adjusted the frame and said, “It might be because he’s unfamiliar with the new environment. But it’s been almost two months since he transferred here, and he still keeps to himself every day.”
Jing Mian leaned against the classroom wall, listening silently through the half-open door.
He didn’t move, his eyes beneath his lashes distant and unfocused.
Song Zhinian’s voice held surprise: “He… hasn’t made any friends at all?”
“No, the child seems to have social anxiety,” the teacher asked. “Did Jing Mian have any close friends at his previous school?”
Song Zhinian replied, “Yes.”
After a brief pause, she added, “Not just that—all the kids in his class liked him.”
The teacher sighed. “Changing environments can easily cause this. It’s not the child’s fault.”
“But I’m curious—why did he leave his original school?”
Song Zhinian explained, “It’s because of my husband’s company relocation. This place is closer to the city center. Besides, MianMian’s father wanted him to receive a better, more formal education.”
The teacher nodded. “I see.”
“But MianMian is really well-behaved.”
She continued, “Even though he transferred from a less formal neighborhood elementary school, he’s more obedient than the kids raised under our standardized education. I taught them to sit properly with their arms folded on the desk—only Jing Mian maintained that posture the entire morning.”
“During eye exercises, nap time, singing the national anthem, wearing the red scarf… MianMian is always the most well-behaved and obedient one.”
“And there was this crafts class where the teacher taught the kids to make bracelets. The rowdy boys in class thought it wasn’t ‘manly’ enough and even threw scraps at the girls.”
“But look, the bracelet MianMian made is so pretty.” The teacher showed it to Song Zhinian. “He picked a little star charm for it.”
Song Zhinian took it.
She held it in her palm, murmuring in a daze, “It’s really beautiful.”
“Yes,” the homeroom teacher agreed. “Who wouldn’t love a child like this?”
Song Zhinian frowned slightly and asked, “Could it be that he’s too well-behaved, making other classmates feel alienated?”
The teacher shook her head, seemingly puzzled, and smiled. “How could that be? Being well-behaved is a good thing.”
Song Zhinian was silent for a long moment before replying, “For MianMian, it’s not a good thing.”
“I wish he could be a little more willful.”
The homeroom teacher asked, “MianMian’s mom, what do you mean…?”
“My husband is busy with work and rarely comes home,” Song Zhinian said softly, her voice tinged with inexplicable worry. “When I gave birth to MianMian, I had a postpartum hemorrhage. Since then, my health has been fragile. His father often brought this up when MianMian was little.”
“MianMian might think it’s all his fault.”
Song Zhinian pressed her lips together, her voice slightly hoarse. “He probably believes that if he behaves well, his father will like him more.”
“And come home to see him more often.”
…
The homeroom teacher’s expression turned astonished.
“But Jing Mian is only eight years old.”
She pressed further, “Did the child tell you this himself?”
Song Zhinian shook her head. “No, MianMian has never mentioned it to me. It’s just… a mother’s intuition.”
On the way home from school,
Jing Mian held Song Zhinian’s hand, quieter than usual.
“Mom.”
“Hmm?”
Jing Mian spoke softly, “I’ll have friends in the future.”
Song Zhinian paused mid-step and looked down at Jing Mian, dressed in his school uniform, his hair lightly tousled by the breeze.
Jing Mian looked up and gave her a gentle smile. “Mom, don’t worry.”
Song Zhinian was silent for a long moment.
She ruffled Jing Mian’s hair and said softly, “I’m not worried. I know exactly what kind of child my MianMian is.”
“Once they get to know you, they’ll be fighting to be friends with my son.”
Jing Mian listened and began to laugh too, his eyes crinkling like crescent moons. “Mom, you’re exaggerating.”
Song Zhinian replied, “I’m not exaggerating.”
As they reached the next intersection, Song Zhinian suddenly took something out of her bag. Flickering fragments of light shimmered like a miniature galaxy, with a star embedded within.
She asked, “Did you make this?”
Jing Mian looked up and realized it was the little star bracelet.
His cheeks flushed instantly, and he turned his head away. “N-no, it wasn’t me.”
Song Zhinian hid a smile. “Really? The teacher said it was MianMian’s work, and that it was the best in the class.”
Jing Mian lowered his head further, leaving only the top of his head visible to his mother. He whispered, “Only girls make these. I made one, and my classmates laughed at me for being girly. I won’t do it again.”
Song Zhinian frowned slightly. “Who said only girls can make bracelets or wear stars?”
Amid the rustling leaves of summer, Song Zhinian stopped walking. She crouched down, her voice calm but firm. “My child can wear colorful jackets, grow out his hair, wear makeup, use scented tissues… and even like pink.”
“Because I love you. All of you.”
She took Jing Mian’s hand and met his gaze at eye level. “Even if I’m no longer here someday.”
“You’ll still meet someone.”
“She could be a woman, or she could be a man.” Song Zhinian lowered her gaze, fastening the bracelet around Jing Mian’s wrist. The little stars dangled from the edges, shimmering brightly. “He understands your sorrow, holds an umbrella for you, accompanies you in writing long poems, and loves you in my stead.”
…
Jing Mian’s lashes trembled slightly as he whispered, “No one will ever love me like Mom did.”
“There will be.”
Song Zhinian’s voice was gentle yet firm. “There absolutely will.”
Jing Mian nodded, though he only half-understood.
But deep down, he still didn’t believe it.
Everyone in this world would abandon him—
except for Mom.
The only one who loved him unconditionally was the person who had given him these little stars.
Song Zhinian stood up, taking Jing Mian’s small hand in hers as they walked slowly toward home.
Suddenly, she asked, “Does MianMian miss Brother?”
Jing Mian startled, immediately lifting his head. “No.”
“I forgot about him as soon as he left.”
Song Zhinian chuckled softly. “Even lying to your mom now.”
Jing Mian’s ears turned red, and he fell silent for a long while.
Since he didn’t speak, Song Zhinian didn’t press further.
It wasn’t until their small figures passed a sweet potato stall that he finally spoke.
“After Brother left… it became really hard to make friends again.”
Jing Mian stared at his shadow stretching and shrinking on the ground, murmuring, “I don’t know why.”
Song Zhinian said, “You’ll have different friends at different stages of life.”
“Brother was just someone who walked part of the journey with you. He wasn’t obligated to stay for the whole path, so you can’t blame him.”
“MianMian, you can love others, but you mustn’t depend on them.”
Song Zhinian sighed softly, her voice tender. “Mom isn’t in good health, so I’ve relied too much on your dad.”
“But that kind of relationship isn’t healthy. I need to pull myself together quickly. Dad is your hero, and Mom should be too.”
Jing Mian smiled. “Mom is my hero.”
“Is that so?”
Song Zhinian shook the bracelet on Jing Mian’s wrist playfully. “Then why didn’t you give this to your hero?”
Jing Mian: “…”
His earlobes turned as red as steamed crab.
“The teacher said,” Jing Mian’s voice grew quieter, “to give it to the person you miss the most.”
Song Zhinian paused, unable to resist asking, “Is it Dad then?”
Jing Mian lowered his head, gazing at the little stars on the bracelet without answering.
Hand in hand, they walked slowly down the street, their shadows stretching endlessly in the night.
Suddenly, Song Zhinian laughed, giving Jing Mian’s palm a gentle squeeze. “How about we visit Dad next weekend?”
Jing Mian: ?
He nodded blankly.
“How do we get there?” Jing Mian asked.
Song Zhinian replied, “I called Master Li—he’s Dad’s driver, remember? Dad’s busy, so Mom asked Master Li to pick us up.”
Jing Mian stopped abruptly, surprised. “We’re going by car?”
Song Zhinian smiled. “Of course.”
“No more squeezing onto buses this time.”
“!”
Jing Mian high-fived his mom.
For Jing Mian, this was turning into a week full of good news.
He would get to see Dad on the weekend.
Moreover, he had even made a friend at school.
Perhaps after that parent-teacher meeting, the teacher and classmates had been told something, because when Jing Mian returned to school, he noticed people starting to talk to him on their own.
His friends were classmates from the same class. Whenever Jing Mian was left alone during PE lessons, they would pull him along to play with them.
Although they often borrowed his pens and erasers, copied his homework, and sometimes even rummaged through his wallet to take some money for soda, Jing Mian didn’t mind. The money in his wallet wasn’t much—just enough to buy stationery in the evening and milk in the morning. He could tighten his spending a little. Compared to making his mother worry about him having no friends, these things weren’t really a problem.
Until one day.
A boy was flipping through his wallet when his gaze inadvertently landed on the small photo slot embedded inside.
“Who’s this?”
Jing Mian’s hand paused while writing his homework. He answered, “My brother.”
This caught the attention of the other boys nearby.
“Aren’t you an only child?”
Jing Mian quietly put his wallet away. “Not a blood brother. He’s my neighbor.”
“A neighbor brother this handsome?!” The boy exclaimed in surprise. “You’ve been hiding this, MianMian! If you’d told us earlier that you had such a good-looking brother, you wouldn’t have had to be alone all this time.”
Under their relentless questioning, Jing Mian reluctantly shared a few things about his brother—though he also mentioned that the other had already been gone from his life for a long time.
As the boy listened, he suddenly slapped his thigh. “I remember now.”
Jing Mian froze.
“No wonder he looked familiar,” the boy said. “Ren Xingwan, right?”
“He didn’t leave Lincheng. He’s actually attending middle school at my friend’s school. Didn’t you say his birthday is on the 15th? That’s this weekend.”
Another boy chimed in, “Now that you mention it, I remember too.”
“I heard Brother Ren is throwing a birthday party on the second floor of Changlin Clubhouse at seven in the evening. When we got the invite, we had no idea he was your brother.”
“A bunch of us are going.”
“Jing Mian, are you coming?”
On the weekend,
Driver Li arrived punctually to pick up Song Zhinian and Jing Mian.
The family rarely used the car, so even for school, Jing Mian often took the bus with his mother. If he was feeling energetic, he’d even walk home. Thus, whenever he got the rare chance to ride in his father’s car, he was usually livelier than usual.
But today, Song Zhinian noticed something unusual—Jing Mian seemed restless.
He was clutching the star necklace tightly in his hand.
Song Zhinian reached over to feel Jing Mian’s forehead. “MianMian, are you feeling unwell?”
Jing Mian shook his head.
After hesitating for a while, he suddenly said, “Can we not go to Dad’s place first?”
“I… I want to go somewhere before eight. I just need ten minutes.”
Song Zhinian asked, “Hmm? Where?”
“Brother… he’s celebrating his birthday at Changlin Clubhouse.”
Jing Mian whispered, “I want to give him the star.”
…
So the bracelet was for his brother.
Song Zhinian understood now.
She turned to the driver. “Driver Li, please make a U-turn up ahead.”
Driver Li replied, “Right away, ma’am.”
Jing Mian held the little star, feeling as though his heart had been lit up.
Though it was already 7:50, he thought if the car drove fast enough, they might still make it by eight.
He didn’t know if the boy would still be there by then.
It had been so long since he’d seen his brother.
He just wanted to see him once—just to give him the gift.
“Mom, hurry.”
Jing Mian murmured softly.
Song Zhinian pinched Jing Mian’s ear and said with a smile, “Master Li, drive a little faster.”
“Alright.”
As if encouraged by the prospect of seeing that person soon, a surge of excitement bubbled up in Jing Mian’s heart, and he repeated meaninglessly, “Mom, hurry up.”
“Okay, okay.”
Song Zhinian responded softly and gently.
Jing Mian lifted his head and looked at Song Zhinian.
But through the car window behind her, Jing Mian’s frozen pupils reflected an oncoming sight—a towering, speeding truck.
…
“Mom!!”
A violent crash erupted, the windshield shattering with a deafening impact, tearing through the air like an explosion.