A Reunion at the Broken Bridge

断桥重逢 (Duàn Qiáo Chóngféng)

The neon lights of Shanghai reflected off the slick streets, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch for miles. Lan Wangji stood at the doorway of their shared apartment, his fingers brushing against the cool wood of the frame, watching the city pulse around him. Outside, the crowds hustled in every direction, a blur of motion and sound. Inside, everything was still. Silent.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian's voice floated from the kitchen, where he was making tea, the aroma of jasmine filling the room. "Dinner’s almost ready."

The sound of his voice—cheerful, full of life—was a stark contrast to the man standing at the doorway, who said nothing. Wei Wuxian didn’t mind it at first. He never had. He was used to Lan Wangji’s silence, even though it was an absence he could never quite fill. Yet, over the years, the silence had become heavier, as if it was a wall between them—one that Wei Wuxian tirelessly tried to tear down, only to find it standing firm every time.

He called his partner’s name again, trying to coax him out of his thoughts, but Lan Wangji only nodded, a small acknowledgment, and then returned to his position at the doorway. His quiet was a storm in itself, rolling through their apartment without a sound, pushing against Wei Wuxian’s bright attempts to reach him.

Their relationship had always been this way: Wei Wuxian pouring his heart out, laughing louder, loving more deeply, while Lan Wangji stood stoic, as if he were afraid to let the affection seep through. Wei Wuxian knew Lan Wangji loved him—he saw it in the rare glances when their eyes met, in the way Lan Wangji always made sure he was safe, in the small, tender moments no one else saw—but it was never enough.

A few months ago, Wei Wuxian had taken the plunge. He had tried to sit down with Lan Wangji, heart in his throat, and asked him to open up. "I need more from you, Lan Zhan," he had said, voice trembling. "I can’t keep giving and giving and feeling like I’m the only one fighting for us."

But Lan Wangji had merely stared at him, his expression unreadable. "I’m here, Wei Ying."

And that was it. No words of reassurance, no acknowledgment of the emotional labor Wei Wuxian had been carrying on his own for years.

Tonight, it was the same. Wei Wuxian could feel it building up inside him—a pressure he could no longer ignore. They were sitting at their small dinner table, a table that had once been a place for laughter and quiet talks about their future. Now, it felt like an anchor.

"You never tell me what you want," Wei Wuxian said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, but sharp. "What do you need, Lan Zhan? I can't keep doing this alone."

Lan Wangji didn’t meet his eyes. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, his chopsticks moving methodically, as if they were nothing but objects in his hands. "I’m not good with words," he said finally.

"But you’re good with everything else," Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked as he fought back tears. "You’re good at shutting me out. You’re good at making me feel like I’m begging for something I shouldn’t have to beg for. Don’t you see how much I’ve tried? How much I’ve sacrificed?"

Lan Wangji’s gaze flickered for just a moment, and for the briefest second, Wei Wuxian thought maybe—just maybe—he would say something. But then the moment passed. Lan Wangji stood up, quietly clearing the table, his silence louder than any argument they’d had.

Wei Wuxian felt his chest tighten, his heart breaking with each unspoken word.

"I’m done," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, but I can’t keep trying to make something work when I’m the only one who cares about it."