Aki Apricot Juvenile - Chapter 2

“In the south grows a tall tree, yet I cannot rest my thoughts.”
It was meant to be the woodcutter’s tender love song, yet at its heart, it’s nothing more than a poet’s lament for lost love. Still, at this moment, Qiu Xingyou’s mood seemed to resonate perfectly with that verse.
Unfortunately, fate always loves to cling on just a bit too long.
Perhaps… he still hadn’t been able to forget him.

Since coming back, Qiu Xingyou found himself unable to stop thinking. He was constantly lost in thought about all those sorrowful, tangled memories he shared with Jiang Ji before leaving this city.

Less than half an hour later, a heavy knocking echoed through the old house. Qiu Xingyou knew it had to be Meng Li. After collecting himself, he opened the door. The weathered wood groaned as it swung open, revealing Meng Li’s handsome face clean lines and a sculpted, artistic air.

“It’s been a long time,” Meng Li said softly, then reached out and pulled Qiu Xingyou into his arms. His steady breath brushed past Qiu Xingyou’s ear; that familiar scent stirred nerves that had lain dormant for years.

“I think… I won’t be leaving again,” Qiu Xingyou murmured as he returned the embrace. They held each other for a long, long time before letting go. He thought maybe the only things that could still make him feel at peace were this warmth and this familiar scent.

Meng Li carried in Qiu Xingyou’s luggage, stowed it in the trunk, and gently urged him into the car.

“You look… a little better today?” Meng Li brushed aside Qiu Xingyou’s fringe and gave his head a couple of light pats. His touch was gentle almost tender.

“A little,” Qiu Xingyou replied, lowering his head.

They drove in silence after that. Qiu Xingyou assumed Meng Li would take him straight home but instead, the car stopped in front of Zaoying University, one of Luozhou’s top schools. Qiu Xingyou had graduated from there. He’d chosen it not only for its renowned music program which had produced many famous artists but also for the way its cherry blossoms painted the campus pink each spring, breathtaking and serene.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

“To see the cherry blossoms. We’ll go in through the back,” Meng Li replied as he unbuckled his seatbelt, got out, and circled around to pull Qiu Xingyou from the car.

“Why through the back?”

“You think you’re still a student here?” Meng Li’s words had a way of cutting short any argument. He had that kind of quiet dominance always managing to twist logic in his favor. Qiu Xingyou had long since learned there was no point in trying to argue with him.

They slipped through the back gate. Somehow, Meng Li even had a key and unlocked it as if he belonged there.

“Do you remember what you once told me?” Meng Li asked as they sat down on a bench under the trees.

“What did I say?”

“That in spring, when the cherry blossoms bloom, it’s the easiest time to fall in love.”

“I… don’t remember.”

“You’re lying.”

His words hit Qiu Xingyou’s heart like a quiet arrow. Of course he remembered.
Those weren’t his own words, they were Jiang Ji’s.

He remembered the day vividly. He was twenty, a freshman stepping onto Zaoying’s campus for the first time. After registration, a senior with a bright, pure smile had greeted him it was Jiang Ji. That very same day, under a canopy of pink petals, Jiang Ji had told him, “In spring, when the cherry blossoms bloom, love is closest at hand.”

“Meng Li, what’s wrong?”

Suddenly, Meng Li reached out and covered Qiu Xingyou’s eyes with his warm hand. The gesture startled him.

There’s something dirty here,” Meng Li whispered near his ear, his breath brushing softly against his skin. “I don’t want you to see it.

What is it? Let me look. Qiu Xingyou tried to pry his hand away, but Meng Li’s grip was too firm. His small struggle was useless. After a long moment, Meng Li finally lowered his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

But something felt wrong. Just as he turned to leave, Qiu Xingyou felt another hand a familiar warmth close around his other wrist.

He looked back.
And saw what Meng Li had called that “dirty thing.”

“Jiang Ji…”

Qiu Xingyou’s clear, deer-like eyes trembled as they took in the uninvited figure before him.

“Let go,” Meng Li said suddenly without turning around, his back still to both of them.
To Qiu Xingyou’s surprise, Jiang Ji obeyed. He released his hand.

And that was when Qiu Xingyou saw Yan Yue standing behind Jiang Ji.
He understood instantly.
In Jiang Ji’s eyes, even after all these years, Qiu Xingyou was still nothing, someone small and easily forgotten, forever overshadowed by another.

He smiled then, a faint, bitter smile.
He didn’t turn back again.
There was no point anymore.

God doesn’t bless everyone who suffers.
To Qiu Xingyou, Jiang Ji had once seemed like a divine gift to a boy from the slums.
Only later did he realize it had just been a devil wearing heaven’s disguise,
an illusion dressed as love.

We always think there’s plenty of time that we’ll weather the storms and heal the misunderstandings, that someday time will smooth over all pain.
But life is unpredictable, and fate never consults us.
We can’t control birth, aging, sickness, or death.
What’s gone can’t be held, can’t be chased, can’t be recovered.
The sword of time, once broken, can never pierce the future again.

And now, I can’t even offer you a warm embrace.
Maybe love was never meant to last.
Maybe our bond was always shallow yet our feelings ran too deep.

That night, after meeting Jiang Ji again, Qiu Xingyou’s mind was in chaos.
Back at Meng Li’s place, he couldn’t sleep. The air felt heavy, suffocating.
Half-dreaming, he thought he saw the little jester doll by his bed lift a sharp knife and drive it straight into his chest, twisting it deep. Pain filled the hollow space where his heart used to be.

At 2:30 a.m., Qiu Xingyou jolted awake, drenched in sweat.
Terror clung to his skin.
He clutched his aching head, dragged himself into the bathroom, and stood under a cold shower until his thoughts dulled.

Afterward, he sat at his desk. Ever since his parents’ passing, he had kept the habit of writing in a paper diary. He disliked typing; only ink and paper could hold his restless emotions.

He opened the notebook, pen poised over the blank page.
and wrote slowly:

If one day I stand right before you, could you heal this heart already full of holes?