The boy lies on his bed, his gaze piercing the roof to the moon hung high. His body is exhausted, but his heart won’t let him rest. In the daytime world there are many monsters; they keep him jumpy, and he carefully hides himself in a shell he dares remove only at night. The monsters are so stupid - they never guess there’s a person inside the shell.
When he was little, his mother told him about the world outside. “Out there are monsters that eat people. Not every monster does, but only your mom and dad will never eat you.” Everything he knew, his mother taught him, so he believed it without question. Before going out he always checked the shell for cracks, even wanting to patch its worn spots with the hardest thing in the world - gold. “We don’t have that much gold. Earn it yourself when you grow up,” his mother said.
He studied alchemy from an early age and was surprised to find many children sharing the same dream. He didn’t know whether they were human children; they wore all kinds of shells. He also saw quite a few little monsters stark naked; they looked no different from him — one head, one body. Fortunately, he wasn’t a coward back then. He didn’t believe monsters would eat people in front of so many others, so he made friends with a few of them. His mother thought friends were fake; he could only spend time with them in secret.
Soon his monster friends parted from him; his talent for alchemy far surpassed theirs—or so the boy believed. Strangely, the faster his alchemy improved, the more shell-wearing friends gathered around him, and his own shell grew heavier of its own accord, often pressing the breath from him, until he got used to it. He was nearly able to turn stone into gold, and he felt proud.
Until one day, he saw “Love.” He had read the word countless times in books—he always read all sorts of books when he was alone at night. But when he watched two people remove their shells and lace their fingers, his heart still rippled. “Aren’t they afraid the one across from them is a monster?” He couldn’t figure it out. So he tried taking off his shell too and walked up to the pink veil. It was only a thin layer, and the person within was the most beautiful he had ever seen. The boy gave her everything, hoping she would hold him. Unfortunately, he failed.
The boy was desolate. It was the first time he had removed his shell of his own accord; imitating those lovers, he offered up all of himself. But love isn’t something everyone succeeds at. He went pale and, in silence, gathered up his glass-like true heart. He stared at the moon until weariness smothered the sorrow; the boy sank into deep sleep. He dreamed he had shed his shell. He dreamed he had grown up.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t a dream,” I whispered to the youth. He looked at me in silence, just as he had years ago.
“And it isn’t my problem,” I protested. The youth shook his head stubbornly, staring me down.
“I’m sorry—there. But I really did protect you.” He blinked furiously, holding his tears at the rim of his eyes. “I just want love,” the youth finally said, voice trembling.
“Then you have to learn to love others first.” He grew even sadder, and sorrow thickened in the air. His heart held so many sweet lines to say, so many romantic things to do; he thought he’d long since learned to love from all those books.
“No one loves a blockhead.” Getting no response, I realized I’d said the wrong thing; he didn’t seem dull at all, in any respect. “Or rather, no one is obliged to redeem you.” His head snapped up, and I felt a flicker of triumph.
“I don’t need redemption,” he answered weakly. I took the crown from my head and tossed it to him. “A king without self-loathing.”
“Then I’m not the king—you are.” I smiled, remembering how I once wore a bedsheet for a cloak, set a paper-folded cap on my head, and raised a wooden sword bought for ten yuan at a tourist site. Back then the crown blazed gold, star-light draped across my shoulders, and the sword in my hand could cleave heaven and earth.
The youth sat up straight. “I don’t want to hand over my heart first anymore.”
“No one needs your heart either; women don’t care about that—don’t be a doormat.” This time I only wanted you to wear it, I said, pointing to the crown in his hand.
“But I don’t need the love of subjects.” He was growing steadier.
“That’s better. No one follows a fallen king, and a true king doesn’t care whether others follow or not. What you need is love—equal love, isn’t it? You seem to be mixing the two.”
“But I don’t know how. You’re right—I don’t know how to love others. I wanted someone to love me first. I imagined my queen would linger at my door, be drawn by the bright patterns on it, and walk in.”
“Someone already knocked, didn’t she?”
“But I have to confirm again and again that she didn’t come to the wrong place—at least a few times back and forth.” He set the crown aside, his voice low, almost abject. “You want to become versatile, to use that to catch women’s eyes, but they may not care about most of it. Even when you sense a woman likes you, you still keep checking that she loves all of you. And those romantic notions in your heart—do they exist only in imagination? You seem to think they belong to after you’re together. Do you think simply inviting her for tea can make someone fall in love with you? Can it buy another’s true heart?” I picked up a dagger and drove it at his last line of defense.
The youth finally broke. “But—but I thought those were things I could only do after I was sure she loved me. Then I would bare my entire heart. But I understand—no one needs my true heart. And I understand that before then no one will truly love me. It’s a paradox.” Yes—that’s waiting for someone else to redeem you. He had already discovered it: whenever he brought out his true heart, he had to grind himself into the dust. He no longer wanted to pretend he was brimming with energy every day; a decline had set in his bones, and sorrow ran in his blood.
And so I was scattered by the surge of his grief, and the proud yet abject youth sank back into the soundless night. He no longer wanted to write open-ended stories or watch fairy-tale perfect endings. He was just a wretched kid, waiting for love to break in like a home invasion—for no reason at all.