The sumr after her brother’s death didn’t pass—it decayed.
For the next two months, Lu Qingyan beca a ghost in her own ho.
The once bright, competitive girl who had obsessively chased perfect grades now did nothing but lie in bed. She didn’t open her textbooks. She didn’t go out. So days, she didn’t even bother to brush her hair. als were a chanical ritual, tasteless food shoveled into her mouth by force of habit or by her mother’s tired pleading.
The only thing she truly clung to was her brother’s letter. Every night before sleeping, she would read it like a sacred ritual, as if morizing every sentence could keep him alive a little longer.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each ti her eyes moved over the words, the ending never changed. He was still gone. He still wasn’t coming back. But the way he said goodbye—it was like she could still hear his voice in her room, that quiet, teasing tone, calling her "little rabbit," as if he had only gone on a trip and would be back soon.
But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t.
Her room was a tomb now.
The curtains stayed drawn, sunlight filtered through like old dust.
Her desk, once stacked with notebooks and study guides, was now cluttered with untouched assignnts and unopened books.
A photo fra of her and her brother—him flashing a peace sign, her glaring because he pinched her cheek too hard—gathered dust.
She let herself rot.
Because what was the point in growing, when he would never see it?
She didn’t cry as much anymore. Her body was too tired for that. But her chest always hurt, heavy with the kind of ache no sleep could cure. People said grief lessened with ti, but Lu Qingyan wasn’t sure if she was healing or just forgetting how to feel anything else.
Then, sumr vacation ended.
She returned to school as a hollow version of herself—Lu Qingyan, third-year student, top scorer, academic powerhouse... none of it seed to fit anymore.
People expected her to be laser-focused on Gaokao, to chase university rankings like a machine.
But she was tired. Of pretending.
The girl who once obsessed over getting 100s now stared blankly at quizzes, sotis forgetting to write her na.
She didn’t fail—her habits were too deeply wired—but she stopped pushing. The hunger was gone. The engine had stalled.
The start of third year ca like a rude awakening. Gaokao—the college entrance exam that once ant everything to her—now felt distant, irrelevant.
Her classmates talked about cram schools, top-tier universities, and late-night study grinds.
Lu Qingyan sat in the corner by the window, staring blankly at her notes.
The words blurred.
She used to be the one people asked for help, the one teachers praised. Now, she barely passed quizzes.
"Qingyan, do you want to join our study group?" a girl in her class asked one afternoon, hesitant but kind. Her na was ilin—one of the few who hadn’t stopped trying to reach out.
Lu Qingyan looked up. "No," she said softly, then added, "Thank you though."
The girl looked disappointed but nodded. "If you change your mind, we et at the library after class."
Lu Qingyan watched her go.
She knew ilin ant well. But kindness only reminded her of how alone she felt. It was as if the world had placed a glass wall between her and everyone else. They were all moving forward, preparing for their futures, while she was still stuck in that hospital hallway on the day her brother died.
Five months passed like this.
The calendar moved forward. She didn’t.
That day, she got ho late.
One afternoon, she returned ho, the chill of early winter clinging to her coat. She dropped her bag by the door and paused in the hallway.
She stood in the hallway, watching through the kitchen doorway as her mother adjusted fabric samples under warm lighting, her eyes tired but alive with concentration.
Her father was on a business call in the living room, papers strewn across the coffee table. His tie was loosened, his laptop open.
They were... moving on.
She felt sothing ugly twist inside her. Bitter and quiet.
Why does it feel like the world is spinning while I’m stuck in place?
The bitterness ca quick and sharp, like a needle under skin. ’How can they move on so easily?’ she thought. ’How can the world keep spinning, when mine stopped?’
She climbed the stairs to her room, tossed her phone on the bed, then sat staring at the ceiling. The grief hadn’t lessened—it had only learned how to blend in with her routine. Her family was returning to their lives. People smiled again, joked, made plans. But her brother was still dead. And the world acted like it had already forgotten him.
She threw her bag on the floor and slumped on her bed.
Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up without thinking. Scrolled. Refreshed. Scrolled again.
Her screen was a blur of people laughing, traveling, posting s, getting boyfriends, taking selfies. Living.
And then, in between an ad for lip gloss and a study app—
A webnovel promo.
A Thorn in the Crown
"A Thorn in the Crown" wasn’t so lodramatic tragedy—it was a sports novel. About cycling, of all things. Not a popular genre, yet it had ranked #1 on MLC Literature for four years straight.
The male lead, Cheng Yubin, wasn’t the typical underdog or prodigy. He ca from a family of doctors but defied expectations to pursue his true passion: cycling. Along the way, he built a team, ford friendships, and carved a path toward greatness.
It wasn’t even her type of story.
Sports? Cycling? Urban grit?
She almost scrolled past it.
But she didn’t.
She clicked it. Out of boredom. Out of numb curiosity. Maybe even out of desperation—anything to not think.
She read the first Chapter, then the second. Then five more.
The writing wasn’t flowery—it was real, gripping.
The characters leapt off the page. And before she realized it, she wasn’t thinking about the ache in her chest anymore.
Then ca Wang Jingyuan.
At first, he was just a supporting character—a quiet friend with a sharp mind. But slowly, his story unfolded: a boy from a poor family, working multiple part-ti jobs to afford his younger brother’s hospital bills. As her brother’s health declined, he grew desperate. And when hope slipped through his fingers, he crossed lines, betrayed teammates, and spiraled into sothing unrecognizable.
Lu Qingyan couldn’t stop reading.
She watched as Wang Jingyuan distanced himself from the team, abandoned friendships, and took the fall for things he didn’t do. She read about how his brother’s health deteriorated. How he broke down in silence, because there was no one left to hold him.
He beca the antagonist—not out of malice, but out of sheer desperation.
And Lu Qingyan... couldn’t look away.
She saw herself in him.
Because if she had known her brother was sick, she would’ve done anything—absolutely anything—to keep him alive too. Just like Wang Jingyuan. Just like the desperate boy with tired eyes and a heavy heart.
When he stood alone in the rain after losing everything, she cried. When people vilified him without knowing the pain that drove him, she wanted to scream. When readers left angry comnts, she wanted to write back: He didn’t want to beco a villain. He just didn’t know how to survive.
Her hands trembled as she read late into the night, her tears soaking the screen.
In Wang Jingyuan, she didn’t find hope or healing.
She found companionship in sorrow.
Just like how people pitied her when her brother died, she now pitied him. Deeply. Tragically. Fiercely.
Misery loves company.
And sohow, it made her feel less alone.
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