Dylan Wang

When the plane touched down on the Leshan runway, Gela felt light for the first time in a long time. Not the kind that comes after sleep or vacation, but almost physical — as if the invisible burden of Moscow everyday life, subway queues, gray February snow and an endless work cycle had been lifted from my shoulders.

The scoreboard was flashing: Welcome to China.

She smiled and seemed to answer herself: "Well, hello, a new life. Even if it's only for a couple of weeks."

My aunt's house was noisy, cozy, and filled with the smell of spices, ginger, and warmed rice. From the very first day, Gelya wandered the streets, trying everything new, absorbing every little thing: bright signs, the unusual rhythm of the language around, the rush at intersections, street musicians.

And it was on one of these walks—without a plan, without a goal—that she heard the sound of a live guitar coming from a small bar on the corner.

It was dim, warm, and noisy inside. Chinese musicians played covers of Western bands, the bartender poured sparkling drinks at the counter, and the local youth laughed so loudly and sincerely, as if the whole world outside the door had ceased to exist.

"Are you alone?" — she heard a voice nearby.

There was a girl standing next to him, bright, with short hair and a wide smile.

That's how Gel met Li Zhen, a student, an amateur singer, and the soul of any company. Half an hour later, they were talking as if they had known each other for years. And an hour later, Gela had already promised to come to a "real city party," as Li Zhen put it.

She had never imagined how fateful this promise would be.

The place shone with hundreds of lights — lasers, backlighting, huge screens, mirrored ceilings. The music was vibrating in her chest, everything was too bright, too loud, too alive—and that's why Gela liked it.

She was holding a cocktail in her hands and trying to keep up with Li Zhen, who greeted her acquaintances like Miss popularity.*

And at the moment when Gelya turned around to make way for two girls who passed too close, her elbow touched someone's side. The glass slipped out. Cold liquid splashed up.

— Be careful! A voice rang out, deep and harsh.

Drops of cocktail glistened on the man's black shirt. His gaze was heavy, angry, barely restrained.

It was only when he raised his head that Gelya realized who was in front of her.

Dylan Wang. The one. The face from the screens. An icon of millions.

My heart sank.

—I... I'm really sorry...— she managed, feeling her cheeks burn.

—Wonderful,— he said, barely hiding his annoyance. — I love evenings when alcohol is poured over me.

Several people around turned around. Someone was already picking up the phone.

It was a nightmare.

"I really..." she tried again, but he had already turned away.

Li Zhen dragged her away by the hand, but it was enough. She knew he remembered her. Just not in the way any girl would dream of.

For the next few days, Gela couldn't get that moment out of her mind. Shame burned inside. But time in China was rapidly running out, and soon she returned to Russia.

She decided that the episode with Dylan was a ridiculous, shameful, but forgettable moment. The first weeks after returning, life flowed calmly: work, meetings, snow, traffic jams. She even stopped blushing, remembering that night.*

It's been six months.

And suddenly the thought of returning to China began to come too often. At first, it was like a fantasy. Then it's like a dream. And then — as a solution.

She wanted freedom. A new beginning. A new self.

And one morning, looking at the fresh visa stamp, she realized: everything has already been decided.

This time she came in earnest — she rented an apartment, took a language course, and started looking for a job. China was no longer a bright postcard for her — it had become real, with mundane details, difficulties, and tedious routes.

And she loved it.

One evening, returning from class, she heard the familiar music of a bar on the corner. Not the one she visited six months ago, but a similar atmosphere.

She came in. And at that moment, space seemed to shrink into a dot.

A man was standing at the counter. Tall. Attentive. His profile is the one that is impossible not to recognize.

Dylan Wang. Gela froze. He wasn't angry this time. He was tired, as if he had been chewed over by endless filming, flashes and roles. He turned around and his face changed.

Dylan stared at her for too long, and not at all in the way one looks at pleasant recognition. His gaze was heavy, tired and clearly annoyed, as if Gelya was not a person, but a mistake that fate had decided to repeat for the sake of mockery.

"You again,— he finally said, not hiding his displeasure.

No smile. Not even a shadow of curiosity—just tired irritation, as if the same problem had been thrown at his feet again, which he hoped to forget forever.

—I... yes,— Gelya smiled awkwardly. — An accident.

—Amazing," he murmured. — China is still a small country.

He turned away, as if he already regretted speaking up. He picked up a glass from the counter, took a slow sip, and pointedly stared away. Of course, he didn't want to talk.

But fate decided otherwise.

"Hey, Van, do you know her?" Someone from his company shouted.

Dylan turned around abruptly, almost ordering Gela to be silent with his gaze.

"No,— he snapped. "Actually, I don't.

As if wanting to erase the very fact of her existence.

• felt something unpleasant constricting inside. She tried to take a step back, but he was already looking at her—now angrily, appraisingly.*

"What are you doing here?" "What is it?" he asked dryly, as if he were checking a pass.

"I'm just... living." She returned to China.

He snorted, a short, mocking snort.

—That's great. So now I have to wait all the time for you to come around the corner in front of me again?

—I don't...— she began, but he cut her off.

— Listen, honestly. I have a normal evening tonight. I don't want a repeat of that... circus.

He made a hand gesture indicating that the conversation was over. But Gela, contrary to common sense, did not leave.

"I wasn't going to interrupt," she said urgently, "I just decided to go to the bar." I can go to another one.

His frown deepened.

— I generally want everything to be calm. Do you understand? Calmly. No groupies, no drama, no spilled drinks, and no weird coincidences.

The word "groupies" pricked. Gelya lowered her head. He sounded like he was using knives.

—Okay,— she breathed. "Got it."

She turned to leave. But before she could take two steps, he said irritably,:

"Wait a minute.

Gelya turned around, and he was looking at her as if he was forced to continue the conversation against his will.

"I said stay back. But that doesn't mean I want you to leave.... It's like I kicked you out. He grimaced. "I don't like to look like an asshole."

He clearly didn't know why he was saying this at all. It seemed that he himself didn't like that a sense of tact had awakened across his irritation.

—Listen...— he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just... stay there." Not nearby. Not too close. And... don't disappear like I yelled at you.

"But you yelled”— she said.

—Yes,— he agreed grimly. "And maybe I'll do it again." I'm not the best conversationalist today, okay?

He turned away, ruffled his hair tiredly, exhaled.

— Okay. Since fate is mocking you so much... you can stay. But don't expect me to be friendly.

Gelya nodded softly.

He stared at her for a second, two... and then looked away again. But now, not with rage. With exasperated surrender. It was as if life had given him a task that he could neither refuse nor solve to the end.