It seemed to be a dream.
Lu Bochen felt cold, so cold that he wanted to open his eyes.
He struggled to lift his eyelids, and the first thing he saw was the ceiling of his own room.
Lu Bochen stared blankly for a few seconds, his thoughts muddled.
...Was he home?
Something seemed wrong.
Although he couldn't remember anything that had happened before, he felt he shouldn't have woken up in his own bed as though nothing had happened.
Lu Bochen pushed himself upright and looked around dazedly.
The white room looked just as familiar as ever. Warm sunlight streamed through the window, spilling quietly across the floor and making everything feel cozy.
A brightly colored painting was mounted on the easel by the window. Lu Bochen stared at it for a while before recognizing it as a painting he had made for himself, titled "Soul."
It was a colorful, beautiful soul, yet as weightless as mist, something that could be scattered by the slightest breeze.
-in Lu Bochen's understanding of himself, this fragile, elusive image was what represented him.
But he hated that image.
He knew all too well that his inner self was forever adrift and anxious, and only by constantly avoiding other people's eyes could he find the illusion of stability within himself.
Lu Bochen loathed his weightless self.
He pressed his lips together and was about to look away when he suddenly noticed something unusual in the painting.
It was an extraordinarily vivid stroke: a bright red heart.
Lu Bochen still remembered that Lu Xiaoxiao had painted it there.
It was actually a very roughly drawn heart, with no detail and no professional painting techniques behind it, yet it blended seamlessly into the original painting.
Perhaps Lu Bochen was imagining things, but he actually saw