There's this thing about the stage.

The slight burn under the eyes as the spotlights flash on my face, the familiar sting from the guitar strings on fingers, the bass that literally shakes me to the core, the adrenaline rush, and the cheer of the crowd . . . Well, maybe it's a bunch of things, but it feels like I'm living my life just to feel this for an hour every week.

I guess it's universal. Because the only time I see Wen Ning looking this alive is when he kicks into our bass-electric duet. It's not a big crowd, neither is it a big stage, so Xingchen has to step aside from his microphone to give us space to perform. It's only the club which Qing owned, and we're playing here as a favor. But this is good enough. The terrific thing called dreams do exist in my head; but for now, this is good enough.

The crowd applauses as we end our final song and we step down handing the stage over to the DJ. That's how long it takes for Song Lan to glue his mouth to Xingchen, still clutching the drumsticks in one hand, pulling him close with the other. "Geez, you two are disgusting." I groan, freeing myself from the strap of my guitar.

"Shut up, Xian," Xingchen mumbles, as the four of us stroll into the dressing room. My name is Wei Wuxian. But by the end of my freshman year in college, it was cut down to Xian.

"You can't blame us." Song leans on the wall next to the door, watching us pack up. "It's your fault that we're together."

I squint. "I only took you in for the band." I unzip the cover of my guitar and put it in.

"And Xingchen came as a package deal." Song completes.

"As I can see," I snort. But honestly, seeing them together had made me believe in something I thought didn't exist.

I pull out my phone from my pocket. It's 12:43 and the screen showed eight missed calls from Jiang Cheng. Great, he's going to eat me alive. Stuffing the phone back, I pick up my cover in a rush mumbling "I've gotta go."

Xingchen closes and locks the black box which was filled with cables and mics saying, "Your brother is a monster."

"I don't disagree." I pick the black cover. "I'm off. Tell Qing that I left."

"See you on Monday." I hear Xingchen yell as I run out of the back door.

It's past midnight when I reach home, which right now is an apartment I shared with my two siblings. Shijie is usually asleep at this time and I'm hoping that Cheng too has slept, as I enter the passcode. I open the door to find the lights of the living room turned on; the odds are not in my favor. Well, for a fact they never are.

"What the hell were you doing? Do you know what time it is?" I hear Cheng's voice boom when I take off my shoes. He's tucked up on the sofa, with a textbook open on his lap, glaring at me through his reading glasses.

"Yeah, yeah, we had to play a bit longer than usual." I flop onto the sofa, leaning the guitar between my legs. "Qing says that there's a producer interested in us frequenting there."

"You're supposed to come early today. We should go home tomorrow."

"Shit," I mumble, the sudden recalling smacks me on the head. 'Frequent visitations' was a part of Aunt Yu's conditions for letting us live on our own.

"Of course he forgets." Cheng scoffs, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. His gaze remains on me for a moment; observing something

Aunt Yu is not the ideal easy-going person. But certain things particularly put her on the edge. One of them being the gigs at the club. She doesn't find it . . . fitting to the decorum, if I have one, to begin with—but, I can't really blame her. And Cheng usually preferred these visits to be peaceful. Well, in that case, I had a special talent for pissing Aunt Yu off.

"Don't turn up with eye bags tomorrow," Cheng says, eyeing me again. "I don't want to listen to mom's lectures."

"I'll do something about it." I reply.

Cheng glances at me one, no two times, I think I'm in—"Stop that," he yells all of a sudden, eyebrows raised in irritation.

I blink. "Stop what?"

"Stop playing with that thing on your hand—" a poor stack of papers land on my chest "—it's annoying."

"How does that annoy you?" I exclaim, arranging the papers again and recognize my handwriting. "These are mine moron."

"It's just annoying," Cheng mutters, his focus shifting back to the textbook. He surely has taken certain things after Aunt Yu.

The thing on my hand I've been playing with, is a wristband. A plain black one which had been in my possession since I was ten; probably the only thing I've kept safe for that long. Back then, Cheng couldn't bear to suppress the curiosity to know why I suddenly started wearing that every day. He didn't get one because I didn't know the answer myself. And it had been a victim of his annoyance from then on.

"Ooh, I forgot," Cheng smirks. "That's a gift from your secret lover." His annoyance included making up all sorts of stories about it.

"Not this again."

Cheng shrugs. "It's not me who used to act like you got walked-in when we asked about it." I give him the finger, standing up to leave. "See, you're reacting the same way," he yells behind me, I slam my door shut on purpose.

Bastard.

Taking my guitar out of its cover, I place it on its stand and take off my jacket. The spotlights made me sweat, so I take a shower and jump onto the bed crushing my face into the pillows. Damn, beds can be extra softer after an exhausting day.

A satisfied sigh escapes my nostrils, and I turn my head to the side. The first thing that comes into my focus is the woven coil of threads around my left wrist, which had turned to a faded shade of gray with time. The weaving had come off from a place or two, even after the several sets of repairs I've done on my own.

For some reason I can't even begin to figure out, I haven't been able to remove it all this time as if I'll lose it the moment I take my eyes off. Nor can I help to wonder how he's doing on nights like this. The boy from the cliff. The one who gave me this and disappeared.

We never had a way of contact except knowing we'll see each other on the cliff. Sometimes it feels unfair. He just cut me off like it's nothing, and I'm spending sleepless nights thinking of what he's doing.

The day after he left, I went back to the cliff hoping to reciprocate the gift, only to be left alone there till late in the night. The routine followed for a few days until it stopped when I realized that he's not going to show up again. I still don't understand why that made me lose my appetite for a while.

I've asked myself if a wristband is that important a good million times. But I guess . . . I haven't dared to answer.

So secondly, there's this thing about a bedroom too.

Behind the closed door, I can stare at it without being questioned by anyone, maybe even without being questioned by myself. I can lie awake as much as I want to although it's not intentional. People might be seeing me as the guy who'd never gone under; let it be that way. No one has to know that I have a hard time sleeping. No one has to know that I have a little ghost from my past who had taken permanent residence in my mind.

Whatever. That's only because he was with me when my life took a turn after my parent's death. Because I was curious about the silent guy who only spoke too big words for his age when he did.

I'm much better now. I'm much older now. I will forget him eventually. No big deal.