Chapter Text
LATE 2010
Winter had arrived early in Luoyang.
The sky, dark and overcast, made it feel as though morning had never fully broken, even though it was already eight o’clock. Cold air slipped through the poorly sealed window frames of Classroom 2-B, where the rattling heaters barely managed to warm the room.
Wang Yibo sat, as always, in the last row beside the fogged-up window. Sometimes he traced small shapes in the condensation with his finger, but they never lasted long. Like everything else.
Chen Yu sat to his right, the one who never seemed to stop talking, while in front of them—half-turned in his chair with his perpetually messy hair—was Gao Ming.
“Did you do the science homework?” Chen Yu whispered without looking directly at him.
Yibo nodded and slid his notebook a few inches toward him. He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk; sometimes he simply didn’t know what to say.
“Thanks,” the other boy muttered quickly.
They weren’t the kind of friends who shared secrets during recess, but they sat together every day, exchanged notes, and sometimes shared sweets.
The math teacher’s voice echoed through the room like a thin drizzle: constant, gray, forgettable.
“If we divide three quarters by one half, what do we get?”
No one answered. Yibo looked down at his notebook, pretending to be absorbed in it, though he had already solved the problem in his head. He’d done it before the teacher had even finished asking.
“Wang Yibo,” the man said suddenly. “Come to the front.”
He froze for a second, as if his body refused to obey. He could do it—of course he could. He knew the solution. That wasn’t what frightened him. What he feared was walking past those thirty rows of eyes that seemed to sharpen with every step, the inevitable whispers, the muffled giggles, the passing comments.
He finally stood without a word. He walked to the front, feeling the weight of every stare. He took the chalk, wrote out the steps in slightly messy handwriting, and returned to his seat.
“Correct,” the teacher said.
Chen Yu nudged his elbow almost imperceptibly.
“You always know the answers.”
Yibo shrugged and looked out the window. Outside, a flock of birds crossed the gray sky in a crooked line.
---
When recess came, the three of them left the classroom with their backpacks slung over their shoulders.
“Coming to the yard?” Gao Ming asked.
“Later,” Yibo replied.
Sometimes he went down for five minutes—just enough not to completely disappear. But that day, he had something else in mind.
It wasn’t forbidden to go up to the rooftop. It was simply a place no one visited in winter. Too windy. Too cold. But up there, he felt free. It was the only place where he could practice without feeling watched.
He climbed the back stairs and pushed open the rusted door. The air hit his face sharply. He sat on the low edge of the wall and opened his lunchbox. White rice, stir-fried vegetables, a piece of egg. He ate slowly, gazing at the city stretching beyond the school building. From up there, everything looked smaller. More manageable.
When he finished, he packed everything away and only then took out his phone, put in his earphones, and let the music take control.
The first beat struck his chest like a spark.
One, two, three, turn. Arms up. Stop.
He repeated the sequence. Then again. The concrete floor was cold beneath his sneakers, but he soon stopped noticing. His body understood music better than words. The urban rhythm pulsed through him and, for a moment, he forgot the classroom, the stares, the teacher, everyone. Up there, under the gray sky, he owned his world.
“What are you doing, ballerina?” The mocking voice cut through him instantly.
He turned.
Three boys. From his class. Or maybe an older grade. He didn’t know them well, but one of them—the tallest, with a poorly wrapped red scarf around his neck—was pointing at him, laughing.
“Isn’t this the one who sits in the back? The one who never talks? Look at him move.”
“Looks like he’s getting electrocuted,” another one laughed, exaggerating his movements.
Yibo removed his earphones without saying anything. The music kept playing, muffled. Shame, cold, and fear mixed in his chest like a rising wave.
“I’m just practicing.”
“Practicing for what? The circus?”
He didn’t answer.
“Going to cry, ballerina?” the one with the scarf asked, stepping closer.
“Leave me alone,” Yibo muttered.
“What? We didn’t hear you.”
He tried to walk past them, but one stepped sideways to block his way.
“Leaving already? Come on, show us another move.”
Yibo pushed him—not hard, but firmly.
“Move.”
There was a brief moment of tension. One of them let out a mocking laugh, but they didn’t touch him. For some reason, they let him pass. Maybe they hadn’t expected him to react like that. Maybe someone was coming up the stairs and they didn’t want to get into trouble.
When he reached the bathroom, Yibo locked himself inside one of the stalls. He sat on the closed toilet lid, the music still vibrating softy against his chest. He didn’t cry. But he didn’t return to the rooftop for days.
“You can say whatever” he murmured to no one in particular, “but I’m not giving up. Every time I fall, I’ll get back up.”
---
That night, the house was quiet when he came in.
The smell of warm soup still lingered in the air, though the kitchen was empty. His parents weren’t usually home in the evenings. Sometimes they arrived very late, when he was already asleep. Other times, they didn’t come at all. Yibo left his shoes by the door, turned on the kitchen light, and found the usual note on the table:
Food’s in the fridge. Heat up the rice. Don’t go to bed late and brush your teeth.
Love you, Mom.
It wasn’t a sad house. It was simply a house occupied by tired adults who were too busy.
The steaming bowl of soup in front of him didn’t speak. Neither did the rice. He ate in silence, his feet dangling from the chair, the television on in the background just to keep him from feeling so alone. Afterward, he washed the dishes and went to his room.
It was cold inside. He closed the door, changed into his pajamas, and before getting into bed, turned on his night lamp. The soft light—like a small artificial starry sky—filled the room gently.
He couldn’t sleep without it.
He was afraid of the dark. Afraid of the sounds of an empty house: the click of the heater, the wind against the windows, the hum of the refrigerator that sometimes sounded like someone breathing.
I have P.E. tomorrow, he thought. And Science exam on Monday.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. The light was still there.
“Mom, are you coming home late again?” he whispered into the darkness.
There was no answer.
---
A couple of nights later, when it seemed everything would continue the same way, he found both his parents at home. It was unusual. Yibo was even surprised to see his mother in her robe and his father flipping through the newspaper, his glasses sliding down his nose.
Everything moved routinely—until Yibo spoke.
“Mom, Dad… I want to enter a competition.”
His mother looked up.
“What competition?”
“A dance one. I saw it online. They’re holding auditions in Zhengzhou next month.”
His father lowered the newspaper, frowning.
“Dance? Wasn’t that just a hobby?”
“Not for me,” Yibo replied without hesitation.
The sentence hung in the air like a snowflake, unsure where to land. His mother set down her pen. Yibo felt his heart in his throat, but he didn’t look away.
“I’ve been practicing. Every day. And I’ve improved. I can do well if you give me a chance.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then exchanged a glance with her husband. No one spoke for several seconds.
“Are you sure?” his mother finally asked.
He nodded.
“I want to try. Just once.”
His father sighed, then studied him closely, as if evaluating him.
“Then prepare as if it’s the most important thing in the world. Because if you go… you’re not going to embarrass yourself.”
---
That night, in his room, Yibo stood in front of the mirror. The music player started playing. A catchy, fast rhythm—the same one he had practiced hundreds of times. But now it wasn’t just another rehearsal.
It was the beginning of something.
At school, no one really saw him.
But one day, they would.
And by then, he would already be dancing somewhere else—beneath the lights of a massive stage.