The Hidden Truth part 2

I kept telling myself I was fine.

Even when I caught my mother slipping extra meat into Jin Wu’s lunchbox and handing me leftovers with a tired glance.

Even when I overheard her saying, “Wuxin’s independent, he doesn’t need as much.”

Even when I got another award at school and she barely looked up from counting change at the fruit stand.

I was fine. I had to be.

Because if I wasn’t… then what was I?

It all cracked the day grades came out.

I was ranked first in our year again. Jin Wu barely made the top thirty.

That night at dinner, our father nodded at me once. My mother said nothing. Jin Wu sulked. I tried not to care.

After dinner, I went outside. Needed air. Space. Something.

I found myself walking aimlessly until I ended up at the park near our school. The one with the broken swings and uneven benches. And somehow, Xiao Lele my only friend was already there, sitting under the busted streetlight, legs curled up under her, reading.

She looked up, surprised. “Wuxin? You okay?”

“Yeah. Just walking.”

She patted the bench beside her. “Sit.”

I did. We sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that made you feel like you didn’t have to explain anything.

“You haven’t smiled in days,” she said.

I shrugged. “Smiling’s overrated.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You always say you’re fine.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

That hit deeper than I expected. My throat tightened, and I hated that she saw it.

“You know Jin Wu likes you, right?” I said, voice flat, like it didn’t matter.

She blinked. “Yeah.”

“You like him back?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “But I worry about you more.”

That broke something in me.

Because she wasn’t supposed to say that. I wasn’t supposed to be the one people worried about. I was supposed to be the strong one. The smart one. The one who held it together.

But right there, sitting on that cold bench under a dead light, I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I think something’s wrong with me,” I said.

She turned to me slowly. “Wuxin…”

“Not like… bad. Just wrong. Like I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Like I’m living someone else’s life.”

She didn’t speak. Just reached over and took my hand.

And I let her.

For once, I didn’t pull away.

Under the dim park light, Jin Wuxin sat with Xiao Lele, their silhouettes close—too close.

He didn’t see the figure standing half-hidden behind a tree across the path.

Jin Wu had followed him.

At first, it was just curiosity. Wuxin had been acting weird—more distant, more quiet than usual. Their parents didn’t notice, but Jin Wu did. He always had.

So when he saw his brother leave after dinner, head down, shoulders tight, he followed. Just in case.

He didn’t expect to see him with her.

Jin Wu stayed out of sight, fists clenched in his hoodie pocket as he watched his brother slump forward, as Xiao Lele gently took his hand.

He’d never seen Wuxin like that. Fragile. Like something inside him was about to collapse.

And he’d never seen her look at anyone the way she looked at his brother just now.

Like she saw every crack—and didn’t mind.

Something sharp twisted in Jin Wu’s chest. He turned and walked away, fast, before they could see him. Before he said something he couldn’t take back.

He wasn’t mad. Not exactly.

He was confused.

Wuxin had always had everything under control. Smart. Strong. Untouchable.

But now? Now he looked like he was falling apart—and Jin Wu had no idea how to help him.

Or if he even could.

Jin Wu lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, headphones in but no music playing.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Xiao Lele’s face. The way she held Wuxin’s hand. The way Wuxin let her.

He liked her. Had for a while. Not just because she was kind or smart or laughed at his stupid jokes—but because she saw people. She noticed things most others missed.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most.

That she noticed Wuxin.

Wuxin, who was always first. Wuxin, who never tried, but always got it right. Wuxin, who barely smiled lately but somehow still had her sitting next to him under a busted streetlight, like they belonged there.

He hadn’t told anyone how he felt about Xiao Lele. Not even her. He was waiting. For the right moment. For the right version of himself.

But now it felt like he was too late. Again.

Still, something else gnawed at him.

His brother didn’t look lucky. Didn’t look like someone who had it all. He looked broken.

And that scared Jin Wu more than anything.

Because he thought Wuxin was the strong one. The one who didn’t need anyone.

But what if he was wrong?

What if, while everyone focused on Jin Wu’s average grades and half-hearted jokes, his brother had been quietly falling apart?

And no one saw it.

City A, Capital District. The Gu Family Estate.

Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Silence sharp enough to cut.

Gu Yan stood in front of the long dining table, his hands clenched behind his back, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Old Master Gu sat at the head, cane resting across his knees, expression unreadable. His voice, however, was ice.

“Second place,” he said, flipping the exam paper with two fingers. “Not even first. Again.”

“It was one subject,” Gu Yan replied quietly.

“One subject is enough to separate mediocrity from legacy.”

His mother, Tan Wuxing, sipped her tea with a strained smile, pretending not to hear.

His father, Gu Xintian, cleared his throat. “Father, it’s only midterms—”

“Silence.” Old Gu didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. “We didn’t build this name for soft excuses.”

Gu Yan didn’t flinch, though his knuckles whitened.

He was smart. Smarter than most. But not perfect. Not like they expected him to be. And definitely not like someone else they sometimes mentioned in whispers—someone long gone, someone who was supposed to inherit more than just the name.

“You will retake every section,” Old Gu said. “Twice. Until you prove your worth.”

Tan Wuxing gently touched her son’s shoulder as he passed. “Don’t take it personally,” she murmured. “He’s just... tired.”

Gu Yan didn’t respond. He walked to his room, shut the door quietly, and sat at his desk in the dark.

Outside, the world saw the Gu family as perfect. Unshakable.

Inside, Gu Yan was suffocating in a life that wasn’t his to begin with.

The Gu estate, late evening.

Tan Wuxing sat in the quiet of the garden courtyard, staring at the koi pond without seeing it.

Gu Xingxin returned home from the office, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, phone still buzzing with boardroom emails. But when he passed by the glass doors and saw his mother alone outside, unmoving, something in him paused.

He stepped out, quietly.

“You’re out late,” he said, setting his jacket down.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. “Not tonight.”

The cicadas buzzed faintly in the trees. It was warm, but she wore a shawl, hands clutching the ends tight around her arms.

He sat beside her, silent for a moment.

“Is it the anniversary?” he finally asked.

She nodded. “Seventeen years today.”

He exhaled. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Tan Wuxing gave him a faint, sorrowful smile. “You were only eight when it happened. You don’t remember it clearly.”

“I remember enough.”

They sat in silence, both watching the ripples in the water.

“We were in the countryside,” she said, voice distant. “Old Province Z. Your father thought it would be good for the baby—clean air, peace. But I had a bad feeling even then.”

Gu Xingxin stayed quiet.

“He got sick the third night,” she continued. “Fever. Crying so hard, then suddenly going quiet. There wasn’t even a real clinic nearby, just a dusty little doctor’s shop. They tried to bring him back, but…”

Her voice cracked. “They told me he was gone before sunrise.”

Gu Xingxin closed his eyes.

“And then they took him away,” she whispered. “Wrapped in white, buried quickly in the town cemetery. I didn’t even get to hold him.”

“You were sick too, then,” he said. “I remember. They made you rest.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with something heavier. Regret. Doubt.

“Seventeen years,” she said. “But I still remember his face. And sometimes—call me mad—but I wonder... if something wasn’t right about that night. If maybe…”

She stopped herself.

Gu Xingxin looked at her sharply. “Mother. Do you really think—?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I felt he was alive when I held him. He wasn’t just feverish. He was breathing. Looking at me. Then suddenly, gone.”

A long silence.

“Maybe I’m just a mother who can’t let go.”

But in her voice was something else. Something that made Gu Xingxin look at her differently.

Not just grief.

A buried suspicion.

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