Prologue: Rain Drum

Lin Yang deliberately placed a rain drum on the windowsill.

The wind howled outside, but the code on his screen remained calm—compiling, running, flawless. This was the only certain world he had built for himself.

Finally, the rain began to fall—one drop, two drops, then a continuous downpour. The raindrops struck the drum, creating a serene melody tinged with sorrow. Lin Yang walked to the window and pushed it open forcefully. The crisp drumbeats instantly grew clearer. He gazed at the trees on the distant mountains, their leaves rippling like green waves in the wind. A cold raindrop landed on the back of his hand, the chill seeping straight into his heart, stirring ripples that irresistibly pulled him back to that long winter.

Part I: Tiny Fractures

Other than the two people who gave you life and raised you, for whom have you ever reserved a whole, untouched space in your heart?

—Epigraph

Lin Yang’s world had once felt complete. He had friends who walked beside him, the peace of burying himself in books, and never felt anything was missing. Until she appeared—a second moon rising in his once-whole sky.

The coexistence of two moons inevitably disrupts the tides. It was like dealing with duplicate filenames in a Linux system: no matter how you overwrite or rename them, the conflict has already happened and can’t be ignored. To protect this unexpected moonlight, the stars (his friends) around him gradually faded, but he didn’t care. Naively, he thought that as long as she was by his side, his world would remain whole.

The crack appeared without warning in their third year of junior high. They broke up.

It was the most intense period of academic pressure, with exams and revision like knives pressed against their throats. Yet the news of the breakup felt like being kicked into a sea of fire. For days, he curled up in bed, learning for the first time that breathing could truly tear at the heart and bring physical pain.

But what shattered him completely was a note she passed him during evening self-study a few days later.

“Do you know who I like now?”

Lin Yang’s heart clenched violently. Suppressing the familiar, twisting pain, he managed to reply, “Who?”

“A boy in our class…”

When he saw the name, his trembling stopped abruptly. He heard himself say, in an eerily calm voice, “Then go for it… Good luck.”

He didn’t know how he made it home that night. Later, he sought out his old friends, hoping to find some solace in their company.

“Did you two break up?” a friend asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Lin Yang opened his mouth. The words “Because she likes someone else” circled in his throat before finally forcing their way out.

He thought silence was his last refuge. But the next day, another note appeared on his desk, in that painfully familiar handwriting: “If the rumors about me spreading in class came from you, I hope you’ll stop.”

Lin Yang looked at the note and suddenly laughed. Without a word, he tore it to pieces and threw it in the trash.

Part II: The Rumor-Monger

To defend yourself by accusing others of spreading rumors—isn’t that just a more advanced form of rumor-mongering?

—Epigraph

In the end, his friends vanished.

Lin Yang’s world became like a planet in The Three-Body Problem swept by three flying stars—without warning, the stable era ended, and chaos descended into eternal frost. He stopped speaking up, because every word he said seemed to spawn new interpretations. Naively, he believed that if he insisted on his innocence, the truth would eventually prevail. But there was no way to fight back. When everyone looks at you with suspicion, even your own breath feels like a defense.

Misfortune never comes alone. Another girl, Mu Liang, chose this moment to confess her feelings. She had zero interest in academics, the exact type Lin Yang had always disliked. He rejected her without hesitation.

What had he done wrong?

He had merely confided the truth to his best friend while heartbroken. He had merely turned down a girl he didn’t like.

But these two acts, like chemicals reacting under the catalyst of “gossip,” triggered an explosion.

“He got dumped and badmouthed his ex everywhere—so petty.” “He plays with emotions. Right after breaking up with Lin Xin, he led Mu Liang on and made her cry.”

Rumors are like wind—invisible yet pervasive. They twist truths and recolor realities. Lin Yang became the “cold-hearted one,” the “heartbreaker,” the “rumor-monger.” He tried to explain, but his voice was like a pebble thrown into a roaring waterfall, leaving not even a ripple. His friends’ gazes shifted from trust to suspicion, their whispers like invisible moths gnawing at his once-peaceful life.

Silence was taken as guilt. Defense was seen as evasion. And the truth? It had long been eroded beyond recognition by the flood of rumors.

Late at night, Lin Yang sat by the window. He remembered his mother’s words from childhood: “As long as your conscience is clear, others’ words don’t matter.” But now, when he searched his heart, he found only fog. He was innocent, yet couldn’t prove it; guilty of nothing, yet already condemned.

One day, he saw an anonymous note on the school bulletin board: “The truth doesn’t matter; a good story does.”

The crooked handwriting stabbed his chest like a knife. Suddenly, he understood.

He didn’t tear the note down. He simply turned and walked away quietly. He decided he would no longer be swayed by this storm. No matter how cold the world became, no matter how lonely, he would light a fire for his own life amid everyone’s misunderstandings.

Part III: Dawn Bell

In the second semester of junior high, Lin Xin sought him out again, with a casual familiarity.

Their English teacher joked, “Are you two ‘rekindling old flames’?”

Only Lin Yang knew these weren’t dying embers—they were weeds on a grave. He couldn’t be bothered to pull them. For the last three months, he refused to engage with anyone. He poured all his energy into the fate-determining exams.

After the high school entrance exams, the world fell silent. He couldn’t even muster the energy to attend graduation. He just showed up to collect his diploma, took photos with all his teachers except the English teacher, and hurried home.

Alone at home, the silence was perfect. His mother was away on business. Lin Yang ordered takeout, pulled up a movie he’d always wanted to watch—the 2012 Danish film The Hunt. Just as the protagonist Lucas was abandoned by the world and hunted like prey, just as Lin Yang fully immersed himself in that inescapable pain—his phone rang. Caller ID: Lin Xin.

Lin Yang felt no panic, no anger, not even hesitation. He just glanced calmly at the screen, pressed the volume button to mute the shrill ringtone, and sent the call to the background.

He picked up his chopsticks, took a bite of meat, and continued enjoying his dinner and his movie.

On screen, Lucas stood isolated in a blizzard. Off screen, Lin Yang’s world was warm and peaceful.

Later, when he recounted this to his one unwavering friend, the friend sighed with emotion. Lin Yang just smiled and typed out a line:

“I didn’t have time to answer her call that day—I was watching a movie about her.”

Epilogue

What do you think of this story?

It might seem absurd, even theatrical. But I want to tell you: every word of it is true.

Because it’s my own story.

The only difference is, the people in it have been given pseudonyms—left forever in yesterday.