In the concert hall, Jack Young's ten fingers danced across the black and white keys. He didn't sing—just kept playing, stringing together melodies from all sorts of songs, one after another, free and easy, as natural as breathing. The audience couldn't help but whisper among themselves; they had no idea what this concert was supposed to be. But as the music slowly evolved, a deep, vast spiritual force began to spread with the melody, gradually calming everyone down and drawing them into silent listening.
Music is the sound of the heart. Jack Young rarely lets his spiritual power run wild, because he seldom feels anything too intense or outward. But now, he's completely soaked in the red flood from two years ago—those feelings, no matter how hard he tries, he can't hold them back.
As his memories reach a certain point, he finishes the previous song. He sits quietly for a moment, letting the last notes linger and echo, but he’s frozen, almost petrified. No one knows that, as he starts playing the next song, Jack Young’s mind finally sinks deep into the sea of memory, beginning to touch the deepest, reddest part.
That’s the place where the first ripples of the heart spread, the birthplace of inner demons.
So, no running away. Let me see who I once was.
So, no running away. Let me see the me I used to be.
There’s one song he has to play—and sing with his own voice. This song has been buried in his heart for ages; today, he can’t keep it down anymore. So, Jack Young takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. He exhales, starts to sing—no accompaniment, just his raw voice. But that one simple line grabs everyone’s soul in an instant. Eyes go wide, as if pulled straight into the depths of time.
[In the beginning, I only believed in the greatness of feeling. In the end, I helplessly saw that fate was stronger.]
No one could resist a song sung from the soul, with every ounce of his being. This wasn’t just about spiritual power—it was the shock of total immersion. Everyone was instantly swept up in a wave of depth and longing, but one person reacted the most.
It was Dummy Meg. That single line of song broke through the defenses in her heart; she suddenly raised a hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes instantly filled with shimmering tears. When Jack Shu grabbed her hand in worry, she stubbornly shook her head and held back the tears, but her hand trembled and she couldn’t get a word out. In those old memories, so many people had bottled up too many feelings. Jack Young’s line set off an explosion in himself—and in her.
At that moment, the curves of memory overlapped—the two people on and off stage, both recalling the same event from the same day.
Late December 2012. Dummy Jack, skinny to the point of looking gaunt.
Seeing his sunken eyes, thin face, and the smile that seemed determined to hide all the bitterness, hearing his joking words as if nothing was wrong—Dummy Meg’s heart broke like a dam. After Dummy Xi left, she called Dummy Jack. Ten minutes later, they both appeared on that familiar street.
The cold wind cut to the bone. They walked side by side, less than a fist apart.
After hundreds of meters in silence, Dummy Jack spoke first. He sighed, looked up at the dark sky, his voice full of loneliness: “Dummy Meg, you were right, I was wrong. I failed. I still can’t do it…”
[You still chose to go back. She hurt your heart, and you still can’t wake up.]
Hearing his words, Dummy Meg’s whole body trembled slightly. She looked up and took a deep breath, as if trying to swallow all the extra emotions, and replied just as sadly: “Now you get it, right? Love is something you can’t control. That’s feeling, but even more, it’s fate. Fate came for us, and all we can do is accept it.”
“Accept it…” Dummy Jack smiled bitterly at her words, then shook his head slowly: “The person I like, likes someone else—this story, we’ve heard it too many times, it’s old news. So old that we don’t even laugh at the fool anymore, or debate what we’d do ourselves, because we’ve laughed and debated too many times. But when it actually happens for real, it’s just so… how do I put it—killer. Dummy Meg, if you were me, what would you do?”
“Me…” Dummy Meg’s face was hidden in shadow, her expression unreadable. “I’d quietly, quietly be good to him—be good to him without making things hard for him.”
[You say love is just a dream. The happiness I borrowed from you—I can only give it back!]
You, you're like the moon—gentle and radiant. She, she's like the sun—bright and blazing. And me, I'm just a star, flickering with a faint glow.
"I don't know how, and I don't understand how to chase after anyone. If I ever truly fall for someone, I’d never trouble them. I’d just quietly do what I should do."
[The loneliest thing is wanting to stay but not being able to. The gentle words left unsaid, all that’s left is a song of goodbye.]
Stars and moon both belong to the night; you and I share a similar melody. But when the sun rises, all I can do is quietly fade away.
"The rest, let it be. Whoever he falls for, whoever he longs for—that’s his choice, that’s fate. All I can do is help him as best I can."
[Just before heartbreak, we hold each other tight in silence.]
Will I hate? Will I be jealous? Will I complain about unfairness? Of course. But you—go chase the reflection of the sun.
"Until one day, when the dust settles, only then can I let go of everything."
If the heart isn’t here, it can’t stay.
"Win or lose, I regret nothing."
[With every heartbeat, I send you a bittersweet farewell song.]
After the first round of soft singing, Jack Young’s fingers finally landed on the piano keys. The piano joined in, the orchestra followed, and the music began to swell—its expressiveness doubling with each beat. The impact rose exponentially. At the same time, memories began to evolve. Jack Young was like a kidnapper, holding everyone’s emotions hostage.
[Turns out love is just a kind of stubbornness—never meant for so much thinking.]
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After that talk with Maggie Monroe, Dummy Jack finally returned to that familiar spot—just a friend. Suddenly, he understood. His pain came from not knowing whether to struggle or not. But now, he’s given up. Maggie was right—if you truly love someone, you don’t have to possess them. Quietly treat her well, do what you’re supposed to do, and when the day comes, let go.
He told himself: Seal away all those extra thoughts, don’t show them, don’t trouble her. Just play the part of a good friend—that’s enough.
It was like slapping a seal on his heart, or cutting himself with a blade. Thinking that way, he suddenly felt much lighter.
[Love isn’t about fairness—it’s only about willingness.]
The days that followed were the easiest he’d had in months. He was still the same—listening, helping, not too close, not too distant, never obsessive. On the surface, he still lived in a dazzling, diverse, and colorful world. To others, he was just an ordinary corporate elite, keeping just the right distance from Daisy Summers.
The smile returned to his face, he started sleeping longer, and his appetite picked up. He was like a condemned prisoner who’d given up the struggle—knowing the end was near, but no longer afraid.